Suffering Veisalgia
by owlofathena
Summary: Complete. Minerva McGonagall has to deal with a drunk student. Extended by request into post-school years. MM/HG
1. Chapter 1

_AN: In celebration of the excellent film version of Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, which I had the good fortune to see on the day of its release (there's something to be said for pre-booking seats with your friends), I had decided to go through my collection of previously-unfinished works stored on the computer and upload a few for your collective enjoyment over the next little while. _

_And without posting any spoilers, Emma Watson is much improved over the previous movies – she isn't acting with her eyebrows anymore. _

* * *

The Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts had almost finished a particularly scathing reply to the Minister of Magical Education's suggestion on how Hogwarts might cut back on its spending and expenses when a knock on the door broke her concentration. She had been taking advantage of a blissfully free Friday afternoon to catch up with some urgent correspondence that she had been forced to neglect after an incident during the previous evening. A new Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes product had made its way into the school undetected and violently disrupted Thursday's supper along with her own evening plans, forcing her to instead spend six hours tracking down all the school's collection of chinaware which – once enchanted by an ingenious but sadly misused animation charm – had ran out of the Great Hall mid-way through the meal and hidden in every possible corner of the castle until the teachers could hunt them down and return them to the kitchen. This excitement necessitated a short letter to the Weasley twins, informing them in no uncertain words that if her day was ever disrupted like that again, she would be paying a visit to their shop and demonstrate to them exactly _why_ she was a Transfigurations professor.

'Come in!' Minerva McGonagall called out irritably, glancing briefly up from behind her desk at the visitors as they entered, her quill poised above her parchment and ready to detail the fourteenth point of why the Minister of Magical Education was a bigoted ignoramus who ranked below a Flobberworm in intellectual capacity and possessed all the sense of a Hippogriff in breeding rut. To her surprise, three students that walked into her office instead of the expected one.

Or to be more precise, Harry Potter and Ron Weasley stumbled into the room supporting the third member of their informal trio between them.

'May I help you, Mr. Potter?' Minerva said, frowning as the female student was deposited face down on the carpet in front of her desk.

'So sorry to bother you, Professor,' Harry panted out, bent slightly at the waist. It appeared that they had travelled some distance to reach the office. 'Hermione…she …well…I'm not really sure what happened.'

The girl in question had sat up and was now smiling brightly up at the red-headed boy beside her.

'She began acting like this half-way through Flitwick's afternoon class.'

Although his voice was steady, Ron Weasely's ears were pink with embarrassment, a trait that he had inherited from his father. 'I think Pansy Parkinson may have had something to do with it, she's still angry over…'

He was interrupted mid-sentence when Hermione impulsively threw her arms around his legs and hugged him tightly. 'You're soft!' she hiccoughed into his robes. 'Soft like a baby Heffalump!'

Minerva's eyebrows arched upwards towards her hairline; Hermione Granger's words were slurred beyond belief. What was left of the pallor in Ron's freckled skin had gone a brilliant shade of red as he struggled to remove his friend's arms from his being. Deciding that the remaining member of the trio would be more forthcoming about Miss Granger's present state, the Scottish witch looked expectantly at Harry. Although she did dearly want to ask him if he knew what a Heffalump was - presumably a creature known only to Muggles - she choose to address a more pressing matter instead.

'It's fairly obvious that someone's spiked her food with an Inebrius potion, Mr. Potter,' she said, vaguely perturbed by his inability to recognize such a common ailment. 'I realize that I'm your Head of House, but why didn't you go straight to the Infirmary with her?'

'Madame Pomfrey's down in the Hufflepuff rooms treating someone,' the boy answered, running his hand through his already untidy black hair, 'And your office was much closer than the Hospital Wing so I thought…'

Harry let his words hang in the air, leaving unspoken his suspicions that because Hermione was Professor McGonagall's favourite student, they had assumed that she would help them with this unusual request to save Hermione some embarrassment from the student gossip that would certainly circulate should they go down to the Infirmary through the busy halls with a drunk-out-of-her-mind Head Girl.

Sighing inwardly, wondering why these things always seemed to fall on days when she was at her busiest, Minerva set her quill in its holder and sat down in her chair to collect her thoughts, one hand covering her eyes to hide the scene in front of her. Ron had managed to prise himself from Hermione's clutches and retreated to a safer position on the other side of Harry, who was still looking rather dumbstruck at the condition of their normally serious and sensible best friend.

'Mr. Weasley,' she began, silently longing for a strong cup of tea and a place where student antics like this were only a distant memory, 'Kindly go down to Professor Snape's office and ask him for a Dipsomania Antidote on my authority. Mr. Potter, go fetch me one of Madame Pomfrey's Protosoma packages, they'll be on the large wooden shelf opposite the first bed as you walk in to the Infirmary. There should be a hang-over remedy in there somewhere. If we do manage to find an antidote to whatever she's drunk, she'll have a splitting headache for half a day at least.'

Completely oblivious to the goings-on around her and seemingly ignorant of any other occupants in the room, Hermione had crawled on her hands and knees over to the bookshelf on one side of the office and begun re-ordering Minerva's books in a catalog system that seemed to revolve around cover colour and spine height, all the while humming to herself a tune that sounded suspiciously like an off-key rendition of God Save the Queen. Apollon's _Mysteries of Asian Transfigurators_ was now shelved between Edna Dinklehop's _A Practical Guide to Muggle Laws of the United Kingdom _and a scientific publication on Scotland's wilderness and wildlife, all three books sharing walnut brown covers. The harlequin-patterned cover of Shakespeare's _Sonnets _seemed to conflict with Hermione's newly-created chromatic classification system and the book had been tossed aside onto the floor along with a polka-dotted, Muggle-made book on knitting that Albus had given her a decade ago – both polychromatic texts obviously lacking the necessary spectral uniformity for shelving under this new system.

If Minerva hadn't known better, she'd have sworn that someone had given Luna Lovegood a vial of Polyjuice Potion with Hermione's essence in it and set her loose on the school.

'Quickly, boys,' she snapped, watching in concern as her favourite student, now well into a dark green section on the second shelf from the bottom, switched a velvet-bound _Majiks of the Ancient Orient_ with her much-loved copy of Spirion and Tholpe's _Translations of Eighteenth Century German Transfiguratory Methodologies_.

Harry and Ron fled the office in opposite directions.

'They do go fast, don't they, Albert?' Hermione remarked to the bookshelf she was in the midst of rearranging. 'We'll have to ask Crookshanks to eat them tomorrow.'

The set of wooden shelves did not answer her. On the floor, Shakespeare's _Sonnets _gave a half-hearted flop, putting a little distance between itself and the student who had cast it aside.

At least _it_ could run away, Minerva thought miserably to herself.

Tearing her eyes away from the surreal scene, the dark-haired woman picked up her eagle quill and focused on her half-finished parchment to the Minister, being of the belief that if she ignored her student's wild behaviour, there was a chance that the girl wouldn't be provoked to do anything too irrational to entertain her one-person audience.

She was, in retrospect, being far too optimistic. The peace and quiet lasted for less than a minute before the strangely slurred, sing-song voice shattered the silence.

'Isn't it _warm_ in here?' Hermione trilled.

To Minerva's horror, her seventh-year-student had abandoned her librarian enterprise, removed her school vest and begun unbuttoning her long-sleeved blouse before the older witch could rush around her desk to grab the teenager's hands away from her remaining clothes.

'Miss Granger, I don't care _how_ drunk you are, you are not going to start stripping to the skin in my office,' Minerva hissed, clutching Hermione's fingers closed as the girl swayed side to side, barely able to keep her balance on her feet.

The Head Girl looked unperturbed at this forceful intervention and was, indeed, now gazing up into the Deputy Headmistress's face, utterly enthralled.

'You're very beautiful,' Hermione said in a hushed, almost reverent voice, her hazel eyes wide and fixed unwaveringly on the Scottish witch's own. 'Did you know that, Minerva?'

Minerva's well-defined jaw dropped soundly to the floor, stunned both by the unprecedented use of her first name by her student and the fact that this young woman had just made a remark that she hadn't heard in years. Against her will, Hermione's hands slipped out of her loosened grasp and she watched in detached horror as they moved up to the sides of her face.

'Miss Granger, whatever are you…' she began.

And then she was abruptly cut off as Hermione Granger kissed her full on the lips.

It was an unexpectedly _spectacular_ kiss – one which lasted for nearly ten seconds before Minerva could wrap her mind around what was happening and collect her wits enough to pull her prized student away from her mouth. At that exact moment, the combined effects of the magical alcohol and emotional excitement finally took their toll on the inebriated brunette and the predictable happened.

Hermione fainted.

Still in possession of quick reflexes, Minerva caught the young woman before she hit the ground, her own knees buckling under the combined weight of them both. Gravity made the impact with the hard floor moderately painful and the woman bit off a curse as her knee caps collided audibly with the flagstones below.

There was very little else that could possibly go wrong, the dark-haired witch reasoned from where she lying on the floor trapped under Hermione's body. She had a pile of papers to respond to, along with a bookshelf to reorganize. She'd missed two meals already today and likely wouldn't be eating until near midnight. Her arms were full of the best student of her teaching career, who was also thoroughly drunk, partially unclothed and now unconscious.

It couldn't get worse than this, could it?

Another knock on the door broke the silence, and Minerva finally lost her temper.

'Oh, of all the saints in Christendom…' she shouted vehemently, struggling to extricate herself from under her student's limp frame. 'COME IN!'

The door to her office crashed open with a bang and a wrathful Severus Snape swept into the room in a black-cloaked fury, tugging a valiantly resisting Ron Weasley behind him.

'This student tells me that he requires one of my Antidotes on your orders,' the Potions Master snapped out without a word of greeting, scanning the room right and left for a person on which to project his displeasure at having being roused during his period off. 'Is this correct? Or has one of his puerile friends gotten themselves drunk and this is some cheap excuse at…'

Severus paused mid-rant when he finally noticed the intended subject of his criticisms was kneeling on the floor next to one of the students in her House, who just happened to be unconscious.

The witch's dark eyes narrowed as she watched the man's face change away from anger as he processed the colour-coded bookshelf, the vest on the carpet and the position of Hermione's body on the floor. He finally settled into a clearly readable expression that made her even angrier.

The insufferable grease-filled git looked _gleeful_.

'Very well, Weasley,' the Potions Master drawled in a slow, satisfied voice. 'It seems you were telling the truth this time.' Releasing his grip on the red-headed student, Severus Snape offered a small bottle of dark liquid to Minerva with a nasty smile.

'We really must have a chat about this next week, Professor McGonagall.'

Minerva bit back several politically-incorrect and entirely inappropriate retorts about the wizard's heritage and intellectual aptitude and consoled herself with silent fuming. Her sense of honor prevented her from descending to his level, but her mind was happy to invent caustic insults even if they were never used. Perhaps his Legilimens abilities would penetrate her mind and save her the trouble of saying them out loud, while still allowing her to retain some semblance of dignity.

'Oh, and Professor?' The Head of Slytherin had stopped at the threshold and turned to look back at the remaining occupants of the room.

'Yes, Professor?' she snapped out.

'Your lipstick seems to have smeared,' Severus said with an unpleasant smirk, pointedly glancing down at the unconscious young woman beside her. 'As has Miss Granger's.'

Feeling faint, Minerva's hand drifted reflexively up towards her mouth, which only served to make his smile even more smug. With a mocking bow in the direction of the tall witch, he exited the room with his cloak billowing out behind him.

As she watched her fellow staff member leave, the Head of Gryffindor promised herself that she would exact vengeance on him at some point in the near future, preferably in an embarrassing and public manner.

Now rid of her most unwelcome guest, Minerva's gaze turned to the only conscious student in the room. To her surprise, Ron Weasley's bright blue gaze was fixed on Hermione, staring in confusion at unfamiliar ring of red now circling his friend's mouth – a ring that perfectly matched the colour of Minerva's own lipstick. His eyes travelled to his Transfigurations professor's flushed face, the strands of dark hair which had escaped her bun and the long green robes that looked more disheveled than he'd ever seen them.

The red-head's vivid imagination put two and two together and came up with an obvious and very inappropriate activity that the females might have been engaged in while he was away fetching the Antidote.

Realizing by his horrified facial expression that it would be prudent to defend herself as soon as possible before things got out of hand, Minerva had opened her mouth to explain when she was interrupted by a new voice from the doorway.

'What's happened to Hermione?'

An out of breath Harry Potter had just returned from the Infirmary, clutching an assortment of vials and bottles in his arms which he deposited in a heap on the carpet beside the Deputy Headmistress.

'What's that on her lips?' he asked, bending down towards the young brunette witch to take a closer look at her mouth. 'Hermione doesn't wear lipstick.'

Minerva McGonagall gave up.

'OUT!' she yelled, her voice dropping out of its perpetually perfect Received Pronunciation and adopting a dark and overwhelmingly menacing Scottish brogue. 'Both of you, OUT!'.

The two males, making use of that primal part of the male psyche that warns its possessor when a female is irate enough to do strange and dangerous things, left the room, shutting the door behind them as a precautionary measure.

And, now free of every possible distraction, the Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts set about the onerous task of making her student sober again.


	2. Chapter 2

After depositing the unconscious young woman on a newly conjured bed in her office - a location deemed to be far more comfortable than the carpeted stone floor Hermione had been laying on previously - the Deputy Headmistress set off to do some research. Hermione wouldn't be awake for hours yet, giving Minerva plenty of time to simultaneously fill in the blanks and do damage control.

And Minerva McGonagall was, for once in her life, at a loss.

Like the other professors, she was quite familiar with Inebrius potions – often students would venture out on potion-induced benders, resorting to the Inebrius because the ingredients were easy to acquire and the concoction only took a few hours to brew. It was a straightforward fix; the antidote was just as simple to make and the remedy for the inevitable headache that the antidote did not prevent only required two ingredients, but there was something about Hermione's behaviour that didn't match up with Minerva's previous experiences with magically drunk students and she was determined to find out why.

It had, however, taken the tall witch some time to locate the book she was seeking on her newly reorganized shelving. The tome on magical ailments and their remedies had been nestled in the burgundy section next to a slim volume of poems by William Topaz McGonagall, a painfully deluded distant relative on her father's side. W. McGonagall's unique oeuvre was kept for evenings when she had to mark student papers and needed a comedic respite from the incompetence of her young charges. A reading of the staggeringly bad _Tay Bridge Disaster_ generally had her in hysterics by the fourth stanza – her relation's ignorance for the basics of poetic meter, rhyme and reason made even the worst of her students' work seem insightful. Although it would take Veritiserum to make her admit it, the poet was responsible for more than one inept student passing an assignment that they should have failed, fortuitously marked after Minerva had subjected herself to her relation's wretched poetry and returned to their paper with a fresh perspective on the lows to which literary expression could be taken.

The Scottish witch quickly flipped to the 'I' section and leafed through yellowing pages until she found the magical complaint that her student was suffering from. Frowning, she scanned down the page until she arrived at the section describing the effects of the potion.

'_Simply put, the Inebrius potion mimics the effects of alcohol consumption. In moderate amounts – three thimblefuls - it reduces anxiety and lowers inhibitions, making it useful in social situations for individuals who find themselves unable to relax. When taken in excess, the potion may also spark a variety of unusual acute ailments – but is most commonly expressed as vivid hallucinations and a marked preoccupation with colours, although a susceptibility to overheating is also not uncommon..._

_But nothing about absurd romantic desires for Transfigurations Professors,_ Minerva thought silently, skipping through the rest of the lengthy paragraph before closing the book and setting it heavily on the dresser next to her, a surface that was already occupied by a dozen different potion bottles of various shapes and size that Potter had brought up from the Infirmary. It was quite the assortment of bottled remedies, but he had failed to find the one which would negate the after-effects of heavy drinking – although had Minerva required a cure for tone-deafness, or a therapeutic ointment for dragon pox, she would have been in luck.

With the soft sigh of one who has received disappointing news that they had anticipated getting, the Deputy Headmistress stood up and set out to collect the necessary ingredients for the hangover remedy. It had been a very long time since the Scottish witch had had any necessity to brew a potion herself – a task traditional taken up by the Potions Master of Hogwarts. However, that was the one thing that was non-negotiable about this potion's creation.

Minerva McGonagall would be_ damned _if she was going to ask Severus Snape for help.

* * *

Minerva stopped by Greenhouse Three after walking down the hill to collect a few pumpkin leaves from Hagrid's garden. It was fortunate that she had sent her Patronus ahead to deliver her request - Hagrid had left a note on his door, saying that he had gone into the Forbidden Forest to check up on an injured Thestral that he had been doctoring, but that she was welcome to as much of his garden's produce as she wished.

She opened the glass door of the Herbology classroom and was greeted by an oppressive gush of warm and incredibly humid air - so different from the chilly Scottish fall temperature outside - the smell of warm, rich earth, and the unexpected and rather shocking sight of Pomona Sprout wrestling with a gigantic twisting vine at the far end of the greenhouse. The plant had succeeded in wrapping itself around the woman's neck and was in the midst of doing its upmost to choke the life out of her.

'May I assist, Pomona?' Minerva asked in concern, moving closer to her colleague and drawing her wand from an inner pocket. The squat witch looked to be in immanent danger of losing the battle – her face was a deep red and she was omitting ominous gasps every few seconds.

'That's...alright...Minerva,' the Herbology professor choked out, clutching the writhing shoot away from her throat. 'I've...almost got it.'

Another vine suddenly shot out from the bush and darted towards Minerva's body, which she smoothly sidestepped, noting the distinctive blue hairs on the vine's stem as it shot past her and crashed noisily through the glass of one of the greenhouse windows.

'An Armenian Clematis?' she inquired, gazing appraisingly at the vine as it retracted from the window pane that it had just smashed, shaking shards of glass from its stem like a dog shaking itself of water after a swim. Herbology had never held much interest for her in school - but she had been excellent at botanical identification.

'Mmph,' came the muffled reply.

'Poisonous?'

'Very,' Pomona gasped cheerfully. She had somehow managed to grab a trowel from the work bench and was now hacking at every available piece of her attacker with her improvised weapon.

The second vine had given Minerva up as a lost cause and retreated to bother the dirt-covered diminutive Herbology professor. Taking advantage of this new opponent, Pomona squeezed her way out of the clutches of the first, ducked, and expertly knotted it to the one which had been attached to her neck, leaving the two vines to struggle with one other as they vanished into the depths of the bush from which they had appeared.

'Fortunately, it's dangerous only when it blooms.' Pomona said, dusting her hands off as she cast a last appraising look at the plant that had nearly strangled her before turning her back on it. 'Professor Snape asked for the anthers – the seventh years are working on Cooling Drenches – and Poppy would like to test the potency of the petals in her next batch of Pepper-Up Potions.'

'Would you happen to have any sap from the Ostrich Ferns left?' the Scottish woman inquired, still eyeing the Armenian Clematis pot at the end of the row, which was vigorously rocking back and forth in its gigantic saucer, scattering dirt onto the walkway.

The smaller woman began to scan the shelves. 'Will a thimbleful be enough?'

Minerva nodded. 'It's only for one dose.'

Pomona rummaged in a large rack resting behind the trays of immature Chinese Chomping Cabbages – ignoring the fierce gnashing of teeth from the plants - before appearing again with a small bottle of brown liquid. She shook the vial vigorously and then held it up to the light, peering at it with an experienced eye.

'Not bad,' she said, squinting and slowly turning the bottle to look at the now amber fluid inside. 'Some sedimentation - it_ is_ from last season's plants - but it should be just as potent as the fresh stuff. You might want to...Oy!'

The Herbology professor shouted loudly: one of the smaller Chomping Cabbages had gotten a hold of her trailing sleeve and was growling as it pulled her closer to its pot. Yanking her arm away, she glared down at the row of trays.

'Little bastard,' she muttered, rolling her robe sleeve back up to her elbow. 'See if I give _you _any fertilizer tomorrow!'

* * *

As she walked up the steps to the castle doors, pumpkin leaves in one hand and the vial of sap tucked safely into a pocket of her robes, Minerva reflected on what had transpired over the previous couple of hours. After all, brewing and administering the hangover remedy was all well and good, but how was she to approach the _other_ problem?

It was a topic that was inevitable: the boys had seen enough to piece two and two together and they were bound to ask Hermione about the lipstick, and gossip in the student body travelled faster than anything known to wizarding kind. She would speak to them as soon as possible, but also knew that the Head of Slytherin House was not above dropping hints if it meant that a rival House would suffer. And Severus Snape wasn't one to be easily threatened. Or bribed.

This really was an agonizing situation, only exacerbated by the fact that Hermione's actions under magical influence – through no fault of her own – had put Minerva in a rather precarious position on a number of fronts. She was not new to student crushes, although it had been some time – two decades, really – since she had needed to dissuade a particularly amorous one of their misplaced passions. Hermione was the exception to over forty years of aloofness – Minerva hadn't recognized her romantic illusions for what they were.

On reflection, although she hadn't realized it as anything to be concerned about at the time, there were incidents that should have warned her. The odd late night conversation over tea – usually running past curfew, the requests to take on extra work and offers to help mark the younger year's assignments – she had assumed that these were simply part of Hermione's desire to build up academic skills that would serve her in the future. She could remember the one instance when she had caught the girl staring at her just a moment too long in class, only to hastily return to her work once she realized what she had been doing. But that had been more than a year ago and indeed, in the past few semesters, Hermione had become more distant. Not unusual for a seventh year – the NEWTs were a deciding factor in the quality of student's futures, and Hermione was not one to risk academic success unless the stakes were very high.

And when the girl left school next year? Would Minerva miss her?

Of course, she thought angrily. Hermione was more than just another student, she was...

Well..._what_ was she?

Neither student, nor a friend. She hadn't been the former for quite some time, there was very little more that Minerva _could_ teach her in the classroom with other students without obviously favouring her, and the young woman couldn't be the latter while she was still at Hogwarts. They were not equals here – not at the school, and not for some time after either. There were formalities to be observed, after all – letters would be exchanged back and forth for several years, interspaced by the odd chat over tea about work and studies. A friendship, but one that never would never truly become close.

Subconsciously, Minerva touched her lips with her fingers, subtly tracing the place where she had been kissed. Her face flushing at a sudden reckless thought, she hurriedly dropped her hand back down to her side, fingers clenched into a tight fist.

Hermione was not _that_.

* * *

Although four hours had passed since the young woman had collapsed on top of her Head of House in the woman's office, Hermione had been unaware of the passage of time. Very little made sense to her when she finally woke up, and though she had many unanswered questions spinning around in her mind; one overwhelming piece of indisputable fact predominated.

Hermione Granger wanted to die.

The innermost reaches of her skull throbbed with a pulsating pain that was amplified tenfold by the slightest noise or the faintest light. It was much, _much_ worse than any headache she had ever experienced - even the soft illumination from the embers of the fireplace in otherwise darkened room hurt her eyes. Nausea overwhelmed her senses – there was no distinction between sight and smell and touch and sound because it all _hurt_.

'_Hermione.'_

A hand tilted her head gently, even the slight movement pushing her into dizziness. There was the cool touch of a glass at her lips and Hermione felt liquid trickle down her throat. She could not taste it – it could have been water or juice or blood or poison and she wouldn't have known the difference or even cared at this point - anything that put a stop to her agony was welcome to crawl down her throat and do whatever it pleased.

'Pumpkin juice,' came a soft voice again from beside her, pitched low enough so as not to cause more than a dull throb of pain. 'Your body needs fluids and the vitamin C will take the edge off your headache.'

* * *

'And eggs,' Minerva said, carrying the tray that the House Elves had brought up from the kitchen over from the table and placing it on the mattress. Hermione had woken up nearly an hour before the remedy would be ready and the Scottish witch was resorting to mundane methods of hangover treatment in the interim. 'The cysteine will break down the toxins.'

The girl took one look at the plate of food before she turned white and vomited over the side of the bed.

Without batting an eyelash, Minerva calmly cleaned up the mess on the carpet with a Scourgify charm, setting the tray back on the dresser after putting her wand away into her pocket.

'Or we can ignore the Muggle remedies and just wait for the potion to finish brewing,' she sighed, glancing at the small cauldron that was still simmering away on the fireplace.

Hermione moaned piteously.

* * *

It was rare that she choose to complete work in the staff room, generally preferring the privacy of her office, but it was one of those days where she felt like company after a long Monday of third, fifth and seventh years doing their upmost to drive her to early retirement. And, for the past three days, when not in the company of others, she would begin to brood.

There had been one bright point to her day so far , she reflected, but it did not make up for what she knew she would have to explore within the next day or so – Hermione was to be let out of the Infirmary soon and she had instructed Madame Pomfrey to send her directly to Minerva's office. She had decided this to be the safest way of approaching the problem once she had given Hermione the headache remedy; Poppy could watch the girl for lasting effects a few days and had acquiesced to Minerva's request for discretion.

'I've got it!'

The joyful exclamation of delight made Minerva look up from her marking, her quill poised to viciously scratch out a sentence with nine commas in it. Company in the staff room this afternoon consisted of only one other teacher.

'You have _what_, Xiomara?'

The dark-haired Deputy regarded her friend with some trepidation. Even after three decades of acquaintance, Xiomara Hooch regularly continued to surprise the rest of the staff with spastic bouts of insanity. Minerva herself had known the Flying instructor for the better part of thirty years, ever since the woman had appeared at Hogwarts mid-way through the term after a scandal with her Quidditch team, the Holyhead Harpies. Rumours of two torrid love affairs turned sour and a much hushed political incident involving a visiting Polish dignitary, a charmed bicycle and a crate full of flying hedgehogs.

'Blindfolds!'

Minerva's sense of curiosity won by the smallest of margins. She also knew that any refusal to hear what her colleague wanted to spill would only encourage the woman's imagination. Better to nip it in the bud now and save herself the headache later.

'Elaborate, please, Madame Hooch.'

'The players have been getting cocky over the past few weeks – you should have_ seen_ what that little burk Mullally tried to do yesterday in the Ravenclaw practice - accident my arse! A crash or two will take them down a couple of pegs.'

'You are _not_ putting them in blindfolds,' Minerva snapped, interrupting her colleague once she realized where Xiomara was heading. 'Poppy would use your skin for an evening dress if you were responsible for an increase in pitch injuries – she still hasn't forgiven you for letting that class of first years experience bludger attacks – three broken bones, I haven't the faintest idea _what _you could have been thinking.'

'Like bats!' The flying instructor trilled, blissfully ignorant of the Deputy's concerns. 'They'll have to shut up and actually listen for the quaffle and bludgers!'

'Our students are not biologically capable of echolocation, Xiomara!' Minerva said in exasperation. 'Although they may not always act it, they are all human beings!'

'And we can add another bludger for practices to keep them on their toes!'

Abandoning her paper and half-drunk cup of tea, Minerva walked out of the staff room and out of range of Xiomara's mad plans for maiming the school's Quidditch players.

Perhaps there was some truth to the Polish dignitary story after all.

* * *

Ten minutes later, Minerva tossed her heavy outer robes onto the nearest arm of the chesterfield in her office and sunk into the cushions with a quiet groan. She would have to return and retrieve her class work from the staffroom at some point, but only when she was sure that Xiomara was certain to be supervising a Quidditch practice. She made a mental note to keep a close eye on the pitch for the next couple of days, just in case Xiomara tried to use students as test monkeys in her new version of Quidditch.

From her position on the couch, her gaze landed on the bookshelf that was still in its colour-coded state from the excitement of the Friday previous, and she added that task to her lengthening mental list of things that needed to be done when she had a free moment.

There was a quiet knock on the door only a mere minute later, and Minerva felt her energy reserves drop even further. She already knew who it was.

'Miss Granger, how are you feeling?' she asked as a face peeked around the door.

'Fine, Professor.' Hermione Granger looked to be her usual calm, polite, and fully-clothed self as she hesitantly came over to the center of the room to face her teacher. 'Madame Pomfrey just released me but told me I should go to you before I went back to my rooms.'

'Yes, there are a few things that I'd like to discuss before you rejoin the rest of the students.' Rubbing her temples with a slim hand, and with a feeling of foreboding and a silent prayer, Minerva broached the very subject that she had been fretting over for the past three days. 'What exactly do you recall from Friday's events, Miss Granger?'

Hermione frowned.

'Not much, Professor,' she began hesitantly, 'I remember sitting in Charms – we were having a review session from the previous week's subjects as there was a quiz coming up - but beyond that, there's only bits and pieces. Harry and Ron helping me down one of the corridors, arguing. I remember titles of books I've never read, but that part is strange, because I'm certain I didn't go to the Library.'

'Nothing else?' Minerva pressed, wanting to be absolutely certain, filled with new optimism, hoping with all her might that she wouldn't have to explore a realm which she did not want to acknowledge.

'No, something about Shakespeare's _Sonnets_, of all things, but beyond that the only thing is...'

Hermione's voice suddenly trailed off into silence – her eyes had flickered over to the tall shelf of colour-coded books in the corner of the Deputy Headmistress's office. The play of emotions on her face ran from surprise to recognition to confusion and then Hermione Granger turned so pale that Minerva thought the young woman was going to be sick again.

Fearing a repeat of the fall that had left her with painfully bruised kneecaps, Minerva stood up and caught the girl's chin between thumb and fore-finger, turning her shocked face towards hers.

'Miss Granger,' she said gently, meeting the wide hazel eyes with her own calm ones. 'I did not call you here to embarrass you.'

Her student looked absolutely mortified.

'I...I...didn't do that, did I?' Hermione said in hushed tones.

Unable to help herself, the taller woman let out a silvery laugh.

'On the scale of noteworthy things that students have done to me during my teaching career, it didn't even come in the top_ twenty_, Miss Granger,' she said, still smiling. 'Granted, I would have preferred that Professor Snape hadn't remarked on the circumstances by which my lipstick ended up on your lips, but nothing is ever that easy, and I regard it as the price to pay for my own vanity.'

At this, the girl sat down heavily on the chesterfield, bracing herself with an arm on the cushion.

'Oh dear _God_, Snape...' she whispered to no one in particular.

'Professor Snape, dear.' Careful to leave some room between them - if only for her poor student's comfort - Minerva slowly sat down beside her.

'You are still ashamed?' she asked quietly. 'You were drunk, Hermione; your actions were not your own.'

Hermione did not respond at once, but turned slightly to look at her, brown eyes guarded.

'Don't you know, Professor?' she said.

The Scottish witch did not respond.

'Of course you know,' the poor girl continued miserably, not waiting for an answer. 'It's impossible _not_ to tell, not even when the student does their very best to hide it. And believe me when I say that I tried. I worked for _years_ to rid myself of the notion, of the possibility – telling myself that it would pass, that I would grow out of it, that it was just a silly phase.' Hermione's voice became even more desperate. 'You don't look, you don't think, you don't touch, and soon, it becomes a twisted game – your mind is trying its best to forget what the body wants, and can't.'

Bright tears were now in the young woman's eyes, one drop trickling down one cheek as she shook her head from side to side. 'And soon it has consumed your life because the one thing that you are trying to rid yourself of is all you can think and feel and see.'

Minerva's hand gently slipped into Hermione's, her long fingers wrapping around the brunette's smaller ones.

'It was unfair.' This was a barely audible whisper, warbled through a quivering bottom lip. 'Someone I admired from my first encounter with this world was now all I wanted to rid myself of. Why did it have to be _you_, of all people!'

Firmly squelching the voice that screamed at her to get up and leave, the tall witch reached out and gathered her student into her arms.

'Hush,' Minerva whispered into the young woman's hair, one hand supporting the back of her student's neck as she held her close. 'Please calm yourself, my dear, I'm not angry.'

The curly haired brunette resisted the embrace only for a moment, until she suddenly gave up and became as limp as a rag doll. Soon enough, her arms had wrapped around her teacher's slim waist and she was clinging to the woman with all her might. Tears still falling down her cheeks, Hermione pressed her face into Minerva's shoulder, vaguely aware of the faint perfume that she had never been quite sure existed up until now.

'Please listen to me, Hermione,' the Scottish witch began quietly, her voice more tender than Hermione had ever heard it, 'and believe that this comes from my heart when I say that I am truly sympathetic to what you are going through. To be exposed through no fault of your own – and then to have to live with others knowing your deepest secrets, you shouldn't have ever had to go through that.' Minerva ran a hand slowly over her student's back to sooth her. 'Take comfort in that I have already made it very clear to Potter and Weasley that if they ever breathe a word of what they saw to any other living soul, I shall make their lives _very_ difficult for an undisclosed, but understandably lengthy period of time.'

'And Snape?'

At the mention of the Potions professor, Hermione was surprised to feel the rumble of a soft chuckle of amusement in her teacher's chest.

'_Professor_ Snape has more on his mind right now than perpetrating gossip.'

Before she could elaborate further, there was a knock on the office door. The two women jumped apart, Minerva sliding down to the opposite end of the chesterfield to put as much professional distance between herself and her pupil as was possible.

'Professor McGonagall?' Albus Dumbledore called out. 'Are you there?'

Minerva tucked a loose strand of her dark hair behind her ear and immediately berated herself for the nervous gesture.

'Come in, Headmaster,' she called out, surprised at the steadiness of her own voice.

'Ah, and Miss Granger,' he said kindly as he opened the door. 'I heard that you were to be released today - how wonderful to see you feeling better.'

Hermione bowed her head in an obvious attempt to disguise just how red her eyes were from the tears. Dumbledore politely made no sign that he had noticed her rather dishelved appearance, instead turning his attentions back to Minerva.

'Professor McGonagall, I'm very happy to have found you. I was wondering if you could assist me with a little detective work.'

The Deputy Headmistress looked confused.

'Perhaps I should elaborate,' Dumbledore said with a gentle smile, reaching into a large outside pocket in his royal blue and silver-trimmed robes and pulling out of it, of all things, a black cat.

Or rather, something that _looked_ vaguely like a cat.

As soon as she set eyes on it, Minerva's expression became suspiciously blank.

'A cat, Headmaster?' she said politely, after a barely perceptible pause. 'If you are searching for its owner, I can say with certainty that the animal does not belong in the Gryffindor house.'

'Indeed, Professor,' Dumbledore agreed mildly, holding it in front of him and turning the feline side to side so that they could have a better look at the animal, which was emitting the low yowl of a cat that is truly unhappy with its situation. 'I dare say that you would have noticed it.'

Hermione stared at the animal in question, silently agreeing with the Headmaster. Despite her fondness for cats - and she owned a rather strange looking one herself - this one didn't stir any feelings of unbridled affection or prompt an urge to scratch it behind its ears. The gaunt animal could be called nothing short of 'unkempt'; its slick dark fur sticking out in every direction and rather bent whiskers adorning its unusually long and ugly muzzle. The overall impression was one of a rather neglected pet, and if this cat did belong to a student, it had to be a student who had very poor vision, or one who took pride in having the ugliest member of the felid race in their care.

'You might ask Professor Snape, Headmaster.' Minerva answered after a moment of careful consideration. 'I may have seen this creature down in the Slytherin corridor this morning.'

The cat was clearly displeased at being held aloft, and had made another attempt to claw its keeper's long beard, hissing loudly when it missed. Dumbledore ignored the attack, tilting his head to one side to look at the Transfigurations professor.

'Truly, Minerva, we are of like minds. Professor Snape was the one I went to ask first, but he was not in his office or any of his usual haunts, nor did he turn up for lunch or his afternoon class. He seems to have vanished from the school.'

The dark-haired woman raised her eyebrows in surprise.

'It's not like Professor Snape to disappear, is it?' Minerva remarked honestly. 'I will certainly keep an eye out and direct him to you when I next see him in person.'

'Thank you, Professor, for your help, and my apologies for having bothered you,' Dumbledore placed the valiantly resisting cat back inside his robe pocket and gave a slight bow before leaving. 'Good evening ladies.'

'Good evening, Headmaster.'

After the door had closed, there was a conspicuous moment of silence before either of the two women spoke.

'Professor?'

'Yes, Miss Granger?'

'That cat seemed very familiar, didn't it?'

Minerva turned to look at her student in surprise.

'I haven't the _faintest_ idea what you could be talking about, Miss Granger; I haven't seen that animal before today.'

And then her lips quirked upwards and she shot Hermione a brilliant, wicked smile, betraying her innocence in the whole matter.

Shyly, the younger woman returned it with a small one of her own. She opened her mouth to speak, but closed it again and awkwardly stood up, smoothing her school skirt of wrinkles.

'I will see you in class tomorrow, Professor.' Hermione said, hesitantly meeting her teacher's eyes. 'Thank you for...' the brunette's head ducked briefly, her gaze dropping to the carpet, embarrassed. '...your understanding.'

Minerva watched her student walk across the carpet to the door before making the first impulsive decision of her adult life. Favouritism and formalities be damned.

'Miss Granger?' she called out.

Hermione turned around, her hand on the door handle, obviously surprised.

'I would like to offer you a few private classes in Transfiguration; covering rather advanced material that the rest of your class will be escaping due to disinterest and inability. Will you join me for tea next Saturday evening?'

There was a stunned silence.

'Of course, Professor,' Hermione choked out once she had found her voice again. 'Thank you.'

Minerva gracefully inclined her head.

'Good night, Miss Granger.'

* * *

_(edit 2011) And oddly enough, this story originally ended here. But they people complained, so it was extended into another few chapters. But here is the original ending message below..._

_AU: __We may conclude that whatever Minerva feels for her student will not surface for another five or ten years, but it _is_ there._

_Sorry to have been out of the loop for so long – real life does not mesh well with creative writing. I also need to catch up on my reviews, and there are some wonderful and heartbreaking MM/HG fics that have been written in the interim, which I have read, but failed to review. _

_I do have more half-finished stories in the works, but most of my readers already know that means little to my upload times. I seem to respond best to polite but firm threats by e-mail/private messaging – it worked for this chapter (and my college professors). I extend an open invitation to all who wish to begin the harassment._


	3. Chapter 3

Hermione grabbed the writer by the scruff of the neck.

'Don't you _dare_ stop it there!'

'Mercy!' cried the hapless muggle. 'We both know she wouldn't even consider such a thing while you were at school, and I refuse to write pure general fiction until you graduate – I simply can't!'

'Your dependance on angst as a vehicle for your multi-chapter stories disgusts me!' admonished the furious witch. 'You're just too busy reading **asouldream's** Bonding series to be bothered with your own work!'

'I can't help it, it's too good!' came the strangled response, a maniac, half-mad look appearing in her victim's eye. 'Please tell me what comes next, please, _I must know!_ When will they finally...'

'How am I supposed to know – that's an older me!' Hermione interrupted angerly. 'I want Minerva McGonagall for myself!'

'What if…' the writer began hesitantly.

'_Yes?'_

'What if I skipped ahead a bit?'

Hermione leveled a gaze on the author that would have reduced her to ash had she not been fictional character. 'A bit?'

'More than five years?' the muggle ventured.

'Will there be angst?'

The author assumed a guilty expression.

Hermione rolled her eyes. 'Good God, you're predictable.'

'I can't help it.' said the writer meekly.

The student threw up her hands in disbelief.

'You have three weeks!' she snapped, 'And if you're not finished after that lengthy amount of time, I'll send _them_...' here Hermione pointed to the horde of dissatisfied MM/HG fans watching the one-sided battle, '...after you.'

'Oh dear.'


	4. Chapter 4

_Recently, there has been a flock of canaries hitting my apartment window and bursting into clouds of feathers every morning as I eat breakfast. Hopefully this oddity shall desist with my offering below – my new landlady has been blaming her cat for the mess. _

_It is also noteworthy that the mob caught me, roughed me up a little (MM/HG fans really are a vicious lot when deceived by authors), and marched me back to my computer where I was ordered to upload the update on pain of losing my ears. It was a little harsh – it has been _only_ an extra four months. _

_I have learned something from this. The delay was the result of this story being nearly impossible to write, not for any deep spiritual meaning (unless light angst is synonymous to deep spiritual meaning?) but rather that things just didn't _fit._ I cut huge swaths of it out (sections that didn't push the story along or provide humorous relief) and then was faced with two different ways of achieving the ending. I think I've learned my lesson about continuing stories which I have 'ended'. Never again! Not even if you guys _beg_ for it!_

_This is the second-to-last chapter. Now, will you stop waving your pitch-forks?_

* * *

It was a pleasant morning in June when Hermione Granger, already dressed and prepared to leave, sat down at her small kitchen table, relaxing for the ten minutes she had before leaving for work at the Ministry of Magic. Setting her cup of coffee on the small kitchen table, the aroma sharpening her senses more than drinking the liquid ever did, she unfolded the Monday edition of the Daily Prophet to glance over as she habitually did every day.

She abruptly dropped her piece of marmalade-laden, barely-crisped toast on the floor when she saw the front page.

'_**HOGWART'S HEADMISTRESS TO RETIRE**__!'_ blared the headline in gigantic bold typeface, underscored by a slightly smaller font in italics: '_Our reporter has the inside scoop on the school's next-in-line – see page three for details'_.

Hermione flipped the page so quickly that she ripped it. A quick scan revealed a brief retrospective on Minerva McGonagall's stint as Headmistress (with phrases such as 'capable but ageing' being repeated more than needed) and a few unneccessary details on her life history – unneccessary because there was not a witch or wizard in Britain or Europe who did_ not_ know who Minerva McGonagall was. Seemingly aware of this, although it was entirely possible that the man was simply that poor of a writer, the reporter seemed more interested in speculating on Minerva's sucessor – and had made a list of the those he considered the most likely candidates for the Headship.

The young woman had to re-read that line to make sure she had read it correctly.

The writer's prestigious group of nominations for Headship included three Quidditch stars (all from the Ballycastle Bats), one Muggle chef who made 'excellent puddings' at a small Walbrook restaurant that the reporter was fond of, and a 'Mrs. Moneypenny' who had been ever so kind as to help the writer with a small Doxy problem the previous Thursday.

Her interest waning at the notion of a Doxy expert being nominated for Headship of what was regarded as the most prestigious school of magic in Europe, the young woman dropped the newspaper - still open to page three - and bent down and peeled the remainder of her breakfast off the kitchen floor.

After depositing the ruined breakfast into the waste under the sink, and popping a fresh slice of bread in the toaster, Hermione returned to the newspaper. On page two, a photograph of a wizard – a Perry. G. Jenkins, new manager of Madame Malkin's Robes for All Occasions - was shaking his fist at her. The tear that she had made while turning the page had decapitated him neatly from his lower half and his head was mouthing rude words at her.

Disappointingly, the quality of the article had not improved in her absence. The reporter had finished his prophetic musings with Celestina Warbeck – singing sensation of the past four decades and the witch topping the list of those 'most likely to become the next Headmistress of Hogwarts.' His enthusiam was echoed by the gigantic photo of Celestina Warbeck that filled the bottom half of page three. The singer was tossing her head of elaborate curls around and flashing her gleaming set of white teeth in a particularly Lockhart-like fashion as she silently sang one of her hit songs, an advertisment for a concert in Nottingham that evening.

Shaking her head, secretly wondering at the new lows to which the wizarding newspaper had descended, or if perhaps the editor had taken a Beaker of Befuddlement accidently in his morning tea, Hermione dumped the remainder of her coffee into the sink and tossed the paper into the trash to keep the ruined piece of toast company. Picking her satchel of forms and documents from the counter, and taking her dark travelling cloak down from its hook, she opened the door and left for work.

* * *

As Senior Assistant to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Hermione was responsible for authorizing and approving all work, and managing all individual offices in the Ministry's largest department. Each department at the Ministry of Magic had one Senior Assistant, save for the Department of Mysteries - which did not publically release details of its organisational structure - and the Department of International Magical Cooperation – which, despite being relatively small, needed two Senior Assistants to keep track of all of the diplomatic ties to other countries.

Hermione had transferred over to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement from the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures the year previous, serving as the replacement for the previous Senior Assistant who had decided that enough was enough after years of strain and stress in the position, and had snapped his wand over his knee and quit. The last they'd heard, the man had traveled to a remote region of Tibet where he entered a Buddhist monastery and become a monk.

It was not a job for the faint of heart.

There were two inter-departmental memos waiting for her on her desk when she arrived: one stating that there would be a function for International Magic Educators hosted by the Hogwarts's Board of Governors that evening in the Atrium, so all workers should use alternative exits so as not to disturb the attendees, and the other memo asking that Ministry workers refrain from parking their brooms outside – a Muggle had been taken to St. Mungo's after mistakenly attempting to sweep the sidewalk with a Cleansweep 12 and falling from a height of thirty feet.

The tasks of the day were not particularly notable, but required extensive double checking and the sending of numerous messages to various offices. The Wizengamot was holding an election for the selection of three new members to replace those who were retiring from the Council that year, and needed proper documentation in triplicate on each of the twelve nominees. The Auror Office required authorization to upgrade their allowance for equipment – their brooms were now five years old and far slower that they liked. A new Junior Assistant had been transferred over from Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes to the Improper Use of Magic Office and would need someone to be assigned to train him. It was mid-afternoon before Hermione could venture out of her office to hunt down the Head of Magical Law Enforcement to sign papers that she had drafted that morning.

Hermione had stopped a few steps from her office, stepping over to the one side of the hallway to let a Junior Sub-Assistant wheeling a bicycle that was reciting romantic poetry pass by her. She shuffled through the sheaf of parchment in her hands, double-checking to see that everything was in order.

'Hermione!'

At the sound of her name, Hermione looked up to see Susan Bones, formerly of her year in Hogwarts and presently the Senior Assistant to the Department of Magical Transportation, jogging towards her down the main corridor of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. The young woman looked harried, not unexpected for a mother of a two-year-old, but there did seem an added strain to her face today.

'The Minister needs a Senior Assistant for this evening,' Susan began without preamble. In addition to regulating the goings on of their own individual departments, Senior Assistant duties also included on a rotating basis accompanying the Minister at functions and acting as an official representative for the Ministry. 'It's my turn, but Amelia's caught a cough and she needs to go to Mungo's.' The pretty brunette grimaced and lay a hand on Hermione's arm. 'I wouldn't normally ask you – I know you've been up to your neck in work for months - but Penelope Clearwater's off with the envoy to China and won't be back until Wednesday, and Aoife Moody's busy fixing that mess-up with the Lake District Centaurs. Hermione, I'm absolutely_ desperate_.'

And so, at five to six, Hermione found herself down in the Atrium, standing with Kingsley Shacklebolt and the Senior Undersecretary, commiserating over their mutual distaste for the Fountain of Magical Brethren that had once occupied the space in the middle of the large hall.

* * *

It was a small gathering of roughly 40 wizards and witches, most belonging to either the Ministry or the Board of Governors, although a few foreign dignitaries from educational backgrounds were also scattered about. Hermione recognized the red head of Percy Weasley bobbing enthusiastically – really, it was a most _irritating _habit - as he talked with a pretty diplomat from Spain, and at the other end of the room was Neville Longbottom, current Professor of Herbology at Hogwarts, surrounded by several member of the Board of Governors. Neville looked to be in his usual state of discomfort in large social situations, undoubtably wishing for the safety of his greenhouses back at the school, flesh-eating plants and all.

She was about to excuse herself to the two men and walk over to talk to her old friend to chat when when she heard Kingsley's rumbling voice.

'Ah, here she is'

Hermione turned around to follow his gaze, and felt her heart skip a beat when her eyes landed on the newest arrival.

Tall, dark-haired and impossibly dignified, Minerva McGonagall, Headmistress of Hogwarts, drew stares from all sides as she strode through the room, her tailored dark green robes only serving to emphasize the overwhelming sense of elegance that she already exuded. The woman had arrived via the main entrance and was now heading straight for the group in the center of the room with long, smooth strides, politely acknowledging the greetings of people she passed but never letting them divert her from her intended destination.

'Minerva,' the Minister welcomed her with a smile once she had joined his group, his deep voice rolling over her name, 'I'm glad you could make it – I realize that the school is at its busiest at the moment.'

'Kingsley. Thompson.' The witch inclined her head to two men, before centering her gaze on the remaining member of the trio, dark eyes softening perceptibly. 'Hermione, what a pleasant surprise.'

'Headmistress,' the young woman replied softly, unable to ignore the flutter in her chest at the gentler voice that the witch had used for her name.

She had last spoken to Minerva three months prior; a chance meeting in Flourish and Blotts one weekend in late March. There had been no mention of the witch's plans during their brief chat, no hint that she was tired of directing the school and looking for retirement. Not that Hermione had expected to be told, of course - Minerva would rarely confide in anyone.

Kingsley immediately drew the Scottish witch into a conversation about several new policies that the Board had decided to vote on in the coming year. The Senior Under-Secretary was swept away by a group of three foreign diplomats arguing in Cantonese, and Hermione drifted away from the small group, feeling more at unease than she should, but at the same time finding herself unable to look away from her former teacher.

There had been no question before that the tall witch was beautiful, but seeing the woman after time away, the impression was fresh. Hermione never really could pin an age on the Headmistress. Oh, to be sure, she knew that her former Transfigurations professor was now in her eighties, but it was her appearance that defied estimation. Some days Minerva looked to be as old as sixty and other times she looked twenty years younger, particularly when she smiled.

Hermione suddenly became aware that she was staring and quickly looked away, running her eyes across the room for an excuse to escape. Where had Neville gone?

'Miss Granger?'

Startled by the unexpected voice, Hermione almost jumped. The tall woman had come up beside her without notice.

'Headmistress,' she recovered with a quick smile. 'I didn't realize that you'd be here – school doesn't end for another few weeks.'

Strangely, Minerva's lips seemed to thin at the use of her title, although the reaction was so faint that Hermione realized that she had likely imagined it.

'My presence this evening was requested by the Board of Governors – Professor Flitwick has taken over my duties for this evening.'

'Ah.'

'Indeed -,' Minerva continued, dark eyebrows rising, 'I had considered asking Celestina Warbeck, as she seems to be publicly regarded as my replacement, but she was otherwise engaged at a concert in Norfolk. Filius was kind enough to stand in her stead, he had no prior singing commitments.'

Hermione made a face. 'I read this morning's paper – I'm surprised the editor let that piece of nonsense leave his desk.'

'It was the man's third draft,' Minerva said lightly. 'He was, shall we say, _encouraged_ to explore other subjects rather than focus all his attentions on my biography and reasons for leaving. The previous drafts were rather speculative about wild romantic adventures I had planned for my retirement. An exciting, but unfortunately ficticious, notion.'

'Oh.' Hermione - suddenly feeling for all the world like a teenager again - wondered if she sounded as unintelligent and inarticulate as she felt. This palpable unease did not escape the older woman, and the Scottish witch tilted her head to one side, frowning.

'My dear, you seem a little out of sorts. Is everything alright?'

'Of course!' Her voice sounded strained even to her own ears, although she seemed to have thankfully moved beyond the one-worded replies. 'Just a busy couple of months at work.'

Not a lie, but not the whole truth either. Hermione sought to change the subject.

'Professor, why...' she began, intending to persue the question of _why_ Minerva was choosing to leave Hogwarts, but she was interrupted before she could finish.

'Headmistress McGonagall.' A grey-haired Governor in burgundy robes who had come up beside them. 'I apologize for my interruption, but the French Ambassador wishes to speak with you. Or at least I think he does – his accent's impossible to understand.'

'I'll be in touch, Hermione.' Minerva said with a faint smile, catching Hermione's hand briefly with her own, running a thumb over the backs of the younger woman's fingers.

Hermione almost snatched her hand away, but caught herself at the last second.

'I look forward to it,' she smiled back.

That _had_ been a lie.

* * *

'I hear the Holyhead Harpies played well on Saturday.'

It was Friday and Hermione had dropped in to see a four-month's pregnant Ginny after work. The youngest Weasley was Chaser for the Welsh Quidditch team, the Holyhead Harpies, and despite staunch resistance from the Healers and her own relatives, had vowed to continue playing until the day the baby popped out.

Molly Weasley had observantly remarked that her daughter might change her mind once the third trimester came along and she became unable to bend at the waist, let along speed through the air upside down on a broom being chased by a bunch of madmen and a pair of bloodthirsty Bludgers hell-bent on ending her unborn child's life. Ginny had responded in a less-than-daughterly fashion about old-fashioned mindsets and before Molly could compose a furious reply, their respective husbands had stepped in to prevent further damage.

'Two cobbing penalties and the first Snitchnip in two years, _and_ we lost by 120 points.' Ginny laughed uproariously as she came out from the kitchen. 'Are you sure you didn't get your information from a Puddlemere supporter, Hermione?'

'I may have,' the older woman said sheepishly, accepting her cup of tea from her friend.

The red-haired woman shook her head. 'I've never seen Gwenog so angry – I thought she was going to murder Saoirse right there on the pitch in front of two hundred people.' Although Hermione's knowledge of Quidditch was painfully limited, even she was aware that Gwenog Jones' temper was legendary, particularly when things went wrong for her team on the pitch. 'Not that it had been Saoirse's fault; the Snitch just flew into her robes when she was running down a Bludger.'

Ginny snorted at the memory again before turning her bright brown eyes towards her guest. 'But enough of that, Harry says you've been busy.'

'No more than usual,' Hermione said wryly, pausing for a moment to take a sip from her floral patterned cup. 'Things seem to have slowed a little over the past month – the trial finished three weeks ago and that's cut the load down considerably. We also managed to chase down the Boggart that was haunting the Improper Use of Magic Office. It's much easier to run things when you don't have to chase Boggarts out of your office desk every second day.'

Ginny dropped into the chair opposite.

'I read that McGonagall's retiring – any word on that at the Ministry?' She didn't wait for an answer from Hermione before continuing on. 'Dad guesses its just she's reached the end – it's been nearly 50 years of teaching and it's a good a time to stop as any – she's gotten Hogwarts more organized that it has been in a hundred years and all the teachers are actually decent at what they teach.'

This had been an accomplishment on Minerva's part – until people realized that the curse accompaning the job seemed to have vanished, it had been astoundingly difficult to find a Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher for several years after Voldemort's defeat.

'-It's a pity; I had half-hoped that this one,' the red-head patted her belly, 'would be in school under her. Hogwart's just won't be the same without Minerva McGonagall.'

'I saw her Monday at the Board of Governor's reception,' the brunette said carefully.

Ginny frowned as she picked up a chocolate biscuit off of the tea tray.'Did she give any hint as to why she was leaving?'

Hermione shook her head. 'She didn't, but we didn't say more than a few words to one another before she had to convince the French ambassador that the Board of Governors didn't have plans to take over Beauxbatons.'

'How did she look?'

Ginny's tone had changed to one of calculated curiousity. Hermione didn't answer immediately, setting her cup on the sideboard instead. The carpet had suddenly become fascinating.

'Still?' Ginny asked softly.

Hermione nodded slightly, eyes still fixed on the floor.

'Hell,' came the commiseration.

With a defeated sigh, Hermione dropped her head into her hands.

'I'm 26, Gin,' she whispered miserably, shaking her head, 'it's been years since I was her student and it just won't go away.'

* * *

It was nine o'clock on the following Saturday evening that the door bell rung to Hermione's flat, echoing through the rooms. Hermione stood up immediately to answer it, leaving her pile of paperwork on the middle table and her half-eaten plate of food beside it – fish and chips from the place down the corner, white paper cradling the remains of the only food she had had since breakfast. It wasn't that she was avoiding eating, it was just that she never had the time to sit down for lunch.

She already knew who would be at the door; Hermione had few visitors as it was, and only one would call at this hour.

'Hi Gin -' she began, opening the door, her voice dropping off mid-way through the greeting when she registered that the woman on her doorstep was neither a red-head, nor was she pregnant.

'Headmistress.' Hermione corrected herself faintly, staring in surprise at her old Head of House.

'Hermione.' The witch's voice was crisp. 'We've known one another for fifteen years – it entitles you to some familiarity. I'm not prepared to struggle over 'Senior Assistant of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement' - it's rather a large mouthful of words - so please feel free to use my given name.'

'Minerva,' the brunette began again, trying the third name on for size and finding nearly as uncomfortable as the surprise of this unexpected guest, but receiving no further objection from the woman. 'Please come in.'

The Scottish witch stepped into the flat. She was wearing a dark travelling cloak over what looked to be muggle clothes, and despite the light rain outside, was completely dry. An Imperturbious Charm perhaps, although it was possible she had Apparated directly to Hermione's doorstep.

'May I get you some tea?' Hermione said as she closed the door, scrambling to remember her manners, already more flustered than she ought to be.

'Please.'

Directing her unanticipated guest towards the living room, Hermione retreated to the kitchen. After a minute of arranging tea cups, spoons, milk (for herself), sugar (Minerva took one), and pouring the kettle into the teapot, she stood beside the counter with her eyes tightly shut and silently counted to ten. Disappointingly, her nerves did not lessen at this exercise. Giving up on recovering her poise, the young witch picked up the tray and made her way back out to the sitting room. Hesistantly.

Dark eyes flickered over to her briefly, then resumed their examination of the papers scattered across the low table.

Hermione blushed.

'You've caught me in the middle of a departmental review, I'm afraid,' she said, feeling compelled to explain the mess, her face heating up as she noticed her unfinished supper on the end of the table. 'It's normally much tidier in here.'

'Kingsley said that you were busy,' the witch remarked lightly, laying her travelling cloak on one arm of the chair opposite the chesterfield and sitting down. 'When was the last time you took leave?'

Hermione paused briefly as she banished the papers and supper to the next room and set the tray on the cleared table.

'Christmas,' she answered. 'My parents and I went to the Canary Islands.'

'For how long?'

'Four days.'

After this odd question, the conversation segued to the affairs of the Ministry during the past few months. Dealings with the Greek Ministry of Magic had turned sour when one of the British Ministry workers had taken leave of his senses and attempted to import a Pegasus from Greece to the British Isles in secret. It had been a dreadful blow to Greek-Anglo relations – Greece had an international understanding that its pegasi herds were never to be disturbed, there were barely a handful of them in world as it was. Hermione herself had not had much direct involvement in the matter but had spent weeks upon weeks mopping up all of the legal headaches in the trial's aftermath.

Months.

The end result of the whole mess had been a new admendment to the Ministry's guidelines for foreign travel ('Ministry workers shall refrain from smuggling Magical Creatures illegally into the country') and the shipment of a breeding pair of Thestrals from the Hogwart's herd, a gift to placate the wronged Ministry. The Greeks wished to see if viable offspring could be produced from a Thestral/Pegasus coupling – they really were getting desparate for new foals.

Minerva had frowned at this.

'I hadn't realized that they wished to use them for breeding. Aren't they the least bit concerned that this new cross-breeding program might produce invisible Pegasi with a craving for flesh? They do understand what Thestrals eat, don't they?

Hermione shrugged. 'They didn't seem to mind. They felt it might discourage further attempts to steal them.'

As they talked, Hermione's attention drifted to her visitor's appearance. Minerva's attire was muggle; a long-sleeved sweater with a wide shallow neckline that Hermione couldn't remember the name of, but thought had something to do with boats. The dip of the nameless neckline curved down to frame the woman's collerbones and long neck perfectly.

It was easy, now. Hermione could seamlessly imagine herself back at Hogwarts, having tea in her Transfiguration teacher's office during the odd evening, discussing magical theory. They would chat for an hour, never any longer, and Hermione would make her way back to the common room where Harry and Ron were waiting for her.

'_Why would you want to spend more time with the teachers?' Ron would ask incredulously. 'McGonagall's not exactly one for heart to heart chats – does she even ever smile?'_

_Hermione would roll her eyes and offer a scathing retort on the amount of homework Ron was neglecting. Harry would stop them before it became a full argument, and the matter would be dropped until the next week. _

She never had been able to tell them about her attraction to the woman. Ginny had guessed during her sixth year, and have provided a much needed outlet – Hermione had though she would burst if she had to keep it to herself any longer.

Distracted, Hermione tipped her cup up too far and an unexpected amount of hot tea spilled into her mouth, scalding her tongue. A childish mistake, and a painful one at that.

'_Hot_,' she breathed, quickly bringing a hand up to numb lips and dropping her cup noisily onto the platter, upsetting the small silver spoon that had been resting on one side of the saucer.

'Are you alright?'

Minerva had risen to her feet in concern.

The brunette did not answer, torn between rushing out to the kitchen for a glass of water like a madwoman or staying where she was, pretending that she hadn't made such an elementary mistake.

'Hermione?' the witch repeated, coming closer, sounding even more worried than before.

'Burnt,' she gasped out, her eyes beginning to water involuntarily, now overwhelmed by the pain. When was the last time that this had happened? Age eight? Nine?

A touch brought Hermione's hand away from her face and then, like an electric shock, her entire body was devoid of feeling because the older woman had brushed Hermione's lips with her own, lingering for the briefest of moments.

Hermione's world froze on its axis.

'Better?' the witch asked, straightening back up, her voice the very essence of restraint.

Hermione found herself unable to answer, the act of providing her lungs with oxygen occupying all of her concentration. Had she been capable of speech, her immediate response would have been the monosyllabic, tremulous, but very direct answer of 'no'.

_Air._

'You are turning red, Ms. Granger.` Minerva observed mildly. 'Please breathe.'

Hermione gasped, air rushing into her oxygen-starved and burning lungs. It was an inefficient method of respiration but served a basic purpose.

The Scottish witch was placing the stopper back on a small vial that she was holding. She had applied some of its contents to her lips moments earlier.

'A lip balm with a cooling agent,' she explained, holding the phial up before placing it back inside a pocket of her coat '– forgive my forwardness, I felt that speed was of the essence. Fussing with the bottle would have taken too long, and I wasn't sure that it would work – it's hardly an intended use.'

Hermione stared at the small bottle in her guest's hand, watching as it disappeared back into the folds of her robes.

'I…' she began, her voice dying off almost immediately as she realized that she didn't have anything to say that wouldn't come out as completely nonsensical.

Minerva saved her the trouble.

'How is your mouth?'

Long fingers gently tilted Hermione's head slightly to the right, and brushed up her cheek, skimming across her skin. There was not a chance that the woman wouldn't feel the heat of Hermione's blush. It nearly matched the temperature that had until a moment ago, pained her lips.

It took a while for Hermione to sort through all the signals to her brain and locate a specific one.

'Much better,' she breathed out, eyes still a little wider than usual. 'Thank-you.'

And then, acting as if nothing had happened, as if it was perfectly normal to kiss someone who had clumsily burnt their lips from hot tea, Minerva sat back down in her chair.

'I have a proposal for you, Hermione.'

...

_AN: Last chapter will come along soonish. Eventually. Within the next ten years. _


	5. Chapter 5

_AN: And here's the__ last__ chapter. I lie, one more after this. I wrote it as one large piece, but cut it in the middle because I was fussing again. _

_I do that a lot. And I was a little concerned that people would start hunting me down and starve me until this story was updated._

_This story was...and this is no understatement... the death of me. I have a whole list of scenes that I wrote that couldn't be included for various plot-related reasons, or that Minerva was exhibiting out-of-character dialogue. Even worse, I got too attached to sections and was loathe to cut them out – spending far too much time worrying over things that I'd written than writing new stuff to replace them. It's a vicious cycle (and not a productive one.)_

_Of course, you'd probably already guessed as much given that it's been...well, a very long time since the last update. Personal issues, and the only thing that I can tell you is that one of my parents sucks as a human being (luckily the other parent realized this years ago and had the good sense to file for divorce). I realize that as a mid twenty-something I shouldn't let it get to me, but I'm only human. But thank you for all the (creative) encouragement. _

_Where was I? _

_Ah. Story._

* * *

When Hermione had agreed to a walk on the day that she arrived at Minerva McGonagall's home in the North West Highlands, the last thing she had expected was the walk to be up one of the towering peaks that ringed the wide valley.

They had left the house after a light luncheon and had been picking their way up the ridge that formed the mountain's rocky spine for a good two hours. The narrow path was difficult to follow, running up patches of short grass, gorse and over fallen granite stone. Every so often a small flow from a natural spring would cross the track, spilling over and down into the rich green bowl of the valley, destined to join other streams and flow into the large loch more than a thousand feet below.

Hermione avoided looking down. There was a moderate wind, and her imagination did not have to stretch itself to consider how the unlucky combination of a misstep combined with a sudden gust might result in unpleasant vertical consequences. Even the very thought of glancing over the side of the ridge made her feel ill.

Although the sun was high in the sky, it had been raining for much of the morning and the scent of damp earth hung in the air with the temperature noticeably cooler close to the ground. Above them and as far as the eye could see, white cumulonimbus clouds wreathed the tallest mountain tops and cast gigantic shadows that travelled steadily across the open green and boulder-studded land below them, atmospheric winds pushing them slowly towards the South.

Panoramic beauty and favourable climate notwithstanding, scrambling up the face of a remote mountain deep in the heart of the virtually uninhabited northern tip of Britain wasn't exactly how Hermione had expected to spend the beginning of her impromptu holidays and she was suffering dreadfully for her lack of foresight. Her poor body – ruined by nearly a year of non-stop Ministry office work and nights of reviewing papers and governmental decrees at home, combined with a diet that was neither regular nor particularly healthy – was nearly spent and the effort of placing one foot ahead of the other required so much exertion that she could barely breathe. Blood was surging through with each rapid heartbeat, spreading oxygen to her cells but still failing to support her physical needs. Her poor leg muscles were mere minutes away from giving up, drowning in the lactic acid that was a by-product of all this exertion.

And her _lungs_...

'Is it...much further?' Hermione gasped out, stumbling to a clumsy stop on a patch of level ground, bending over at the waist to catch her breath. She was sweating for the first time in years, the moisture running down the side of her face and down into the collar of her un-zipped jacket. She longed for a warm bath with soft towels and a comfortable bed in which she could fall into and not have to get up for a week.

'Five minutes at most.' The answer was nearly carried away by a gust of wind that came shooting down over the top of the ridge above them. 'Really Miss Granger, you're about to be outdone by a septuagenarian.'

It was painfully clear that the septuagenarian in question was not even remotely winded by the walk, nor showing any obvious sign of faltering. It was unfair; Hermione's own legs were burning and cramped and sore to an impossible extreme and her breath was still coming in laboured gasps, punctuated by disturbing sounds from her chest that heralded either severe respiratory distress or imminent cardiovascular system failure.

'Hermione?'

It was only because she had known the witch for years that Hermione was able to detect the tinge of concern. Minerva was more unsettled than she appeared.

'You've...been chasing students around Hogwarts for the past...nine months,' she panted out, once again starting up the slope, freshly motivated by the knowledge that the ordeal would soon be over - provided her legs didn't collapse in the interim. '...While I've been sitting in an office since..._Christmas_...sending off owls and reading reports...My daily activities are hardly conducive... to physical fitness. The Ministry...doesn't...even...have _stairs_.'

It didn't. The building had a variety of entrances and exits, elevators of every shape and description, and secret passages beyond counting, but was completely lacking in actual steps from one floor to the next. Until today, Hermione had never seen this aspect of its architecture as a flaw.

'You have an entire month at your disposal,' came the clear-voiced reply, hatefully free of any hint of breathlessness. 'We must make this a regular activity.'

Hermione didn't trust herself to answer - she had just narrowly escaped twisting her ankle on a large rock nestled in a patch of deceptively innocuous wildflowers and was having alarmingly dark thoughts about her host's decision to choose this activity to begin their day. Indeed, over the past few hours, her utmost goal in life had unexpectedly changed from emancipating the magical races from slavery and oppression by the wizarding population to the simpler and far more pressing matter of reaching the top of this mountain in one piece.

Although the way things were proceeding, she would settle for _alive_.

* * *

Minerva watched the young woman ahead of her with genuine concern. Hermione was obviously struggling to continue on with the climb, seemingly near quitting, and the witch was tempted to Apparate to the top to save the poor girl from collapsing from exhaustion. The only thing stopping her from doing just that was the fact that they were almost at the crest of the mountain, and Minerva didn't want to deny Hermione the chance to achieve this small tangible victory after so much effort had been spent.

She knew that the young woman had enough of that back in London.

There was a switchback in the path to reach the peak, bypassing a section of fallen grey rock that blocked the older way, and Hermione disappeared from the view of the woman who was ten steps behind her. Minerva paused in her climb and gazed out over the open expanse around them, drinking in the fresh air and the sight of blue peaks in the distance and the dark green valleys below. The land around Hogwarts was beautiful, but couldn't hold a candle to the splendour of this untamed wilderness.

She _had_ missed her home.

'_Minerva!'_

A terrified yell from behind and above made her jump, and Minerva's head snapped back to where Hermione had been walking only to find that the young woman was gone. Instantly alert, the witch rushed up to the top of the slope in five long strides, wand in hand, her mind racing through the possibilities of what could lie in wait on the other side. Herbridian Blacks would occasionally make their homes in this range and were notorious for being fiercely territorial. It really wouldn't do for her guest to be eaten on her first afternoon – and it took a great deal to scare off a hungry dragon.

She broke into quiet laughter once she saw what had spooked the younger witch.

'_Heilan' Coo_. Oh, Hermione - you gave me quite a scare.'

Sprawled behind the large granite boulder - half buried in the earth - that had been her improvised hiding place, Hermione stared up at Minerva in bewilderment. It was clear that this was the last reaction that she been expecting from her companion.

'They're Highland Cattle, dear,' Minerva clarified, returning her wand to a pocket and stepping up onto the grass and gorse-covered plateau, a gentle smile on her lips as she gazed down on the animals below them. 'Completely harmless.'

There were a dozen of the native cattle in the small alpine meadow; an area protected from the wind and elements by the lee-ward side of the ridge. The nearest beast snorted at the two women as they approached, but after a few moments of eyeing the newcomers, the cow dismissed them as unworthy of any concern, and bent her gigantic head to resume grazing. The rest of the shaggy fold similarly ignored them, occupied by the tasty bunches of scrubby grass growing on the slope, their tails habitually penduluming back and forth to keep the flies away as they ate.

Wrapping her dangling tartan-patterned cloak over one arm with elegant familiarity, Minerva walked through the scattered group of cows without any trace of fear. A much more timid Hermione followed her, keeping as close the woman ahead as possible, wand held next to her hip ready to defend herself should these strange-looking creatures turn out to be vicious despite Minerva's reassurances to the contrary. They didn't _look_ like cows, not with all that long hair.

'They are not as dangerous as you would think, Hermione, even with those horns.' Minerva's voice was pitched lower than normal so as not to spook the animals around them. The result was pleasantly smooth contralto, without any trace of the usual teaching briskness. 'Very shy, but gentle.'

To prove her point, Minerva slowly reached out towards the closest of the animals and scratched behind the cow's ear, her pale hand almost disappearing into the thick red coat. The heifer closed her eyes in contentment and leant into the scratch, giving a grunt of pleasure. Humans were nothing new to her, although it was rare to see them in the high pastures where the herd spent their summers. And these ones didn't have the noisy barking creatures with them.

A more wary Hermione continued to keep her distance. All of the Care of Magical Creatures classes that she had taken at Hogwarts had taught her an important rule: even seemingly tame, non-magical creatures could injure people in surprising and inventive ways. Those long horns looked sharp, even if they were attached to a docile animal.

'I thought there wasn't a soul around for miles?' Hermione asked curiously, glancing around at the rest of herd. 'However did they come all the way up here?'

'The local farmers have let them out for the season to graze,' Minerva said, giving the cow one last pet before straightening up and moving back over to where Hermione was standing. '– not that there's a fence built without magic that would ever hold them. The cattle will eat anything green that they can find – they're notoriously hardy animals – but wander back home for hay when the snows come.'

'Did your family own any?'

Minerva shook her head slightly. 'The neighbouring Muggle family a few miles over kept cows in their fields, the ancestors of these ones in fact. When I was a girl, I would climb up and read on one of the boulders next to the fold during the fair-weather days. Father scolded me for letting the books get damp more than once – rain comes quickly here.'

It _had_ been a very long time ago, in the days when her dark hair was braided in a long plait down her back, and her knees and elbows were always skinned or bruised from tripping over growing limbs and falling into patches of prickly gorse bushes or against rough rocks in the meadows and ripping her skirts. The cows had been comfortable, if silent, companions, and had not been nearly as flighty as the half-wild sheep that would noisily flee whenever she approached within thirty paces of them.

'Were you lonely?'

Minerva's only response was a smile.

The plateau dropped off on one side into a steep bowl of near vertical rock, sheered out of the side of the mountain by rockslides thousands of years previous. It was dizzying to look down, and Hermione, already feeling unwell from the combination of strenuous exertion, being surprised by beasts of indeterminate temper, and present proximity to the source of all sorts of confusing feelings, took one look at the drop before backing away to the comparative safety of the field.

Her companion appeared to have no such fear of heights, even with the gusts of air rushing up the side of the mountain. Minerva's ever-present bun had loosened during the morning's walk and fallen down to the back of her neck, the wind blowing several long strands of dark hair around to whip against the woman's pale face. The long, red-tartan _arisaid_ had also slipped from Minerva's left shoulder and now hung loosely over her arm, one fringed end lifted by the slight breeze and fluttering through the grass.

'...it's a wild, barren beauty.'

The young witch's mind lurched clumsily back into the present, so distracted that she had only caught the tail end of the witch's words.

'Sorry?'

'The Highlands,' Minerva elaborated, gesturing expansively towards the mountainous horizon with a slim hand. 'Most visitors take some time to adjust – it is more severe than the South.'

Dumbledore had been appreciative of the quiet serenity, but had been the only visitor truly comfortable here. Poppy had complained that it was too empty, particularly when compared with her own native Wales, but all the same would stop by for a visit every year or two, while Pomona and Filius had only been there a handful of times, spending time with their own grandchildren during the summers. Emmeline Vance spent three weeks one year searching the library for an old manuscript (finally discovered in a disintegrating volume of Flemish Arithmancy from the seventeenth century) but had been so preoccupied with her academic hunt that she had never ventured outside. Remus Lupin had stayed for several winters while trying to find steady employment, but had always rushed to vacate when she returned in the summer, even when reassured that he was welcome to stay. It had been difficult to differentiate the source of his discomfort, and Minerva suspected that it was being forced to rely on what he misconstrued as charity rather than unease in the barren landscape – the isolation perfect for his lunar transformations.

And now, Hermione.

Minerva couldn't help but wonder what her response would be.

* * *

It began, Hermione would later realize, with the Highland calf.

Warily watching the cattle from a safe distance, Hermione spotted the small animal, only a few weeks old, peering out from behind the legs of his much larger mother. The pair was at the far edge of the herd, and the calf was nearly hidden by the sturdy frame of the grazing parent. He was covered in the same curly red hair as the adults and with his large liquid eyes - barely visible through its thick forelock - the young beast looked less like a living animal and more like a children's stuffed toy come to life.

Hermione felt her heart melt right then and there. He was absolutely adorable.

Evidently aware that he had been spotted, the young animal abruptly bolted away from his maternal hiding place and catapulted himself across the field in a series of lively bucks, kicks and jumps, putting distance between himself and the newcomers - only to run back moments later, seemingly abashed, when he realized that his unconcerned mother was still eating.

'Oh, you darling creature,' came the soft voice from beside her.

Surprised at this rare show of affection from her companion, Hermione glanced over to see Minerva shaking her head, smiling at the infant's antics, amused by the inexperience of youth.

Hermione's heart fell, reminded yet again of the great disparity in their age. Her face must have shown her thoughts because when she looked back up at Minerva, dark eyes were regarding her as intently as any misbehaving student.

'Are you quite well, Hermione?'

The younger woman gave a non-committal nod, shivering as a sharp breeze rushed up the cliff behind them and cut right through her jeans and light jacket. Concerned by this reaction, Minerva reached out and took Hermione's hands in hers. Her eyebrows shot upwards a mere moment after contact.

'You're made of ice!' Minerva exclaimed, shocked by the chill that practically radiated off of her companion's skin, long fingers moving to enfold her former student's frozen ones. 'Why didn't you say anything?'

Startled, the young witch glanced down at their joined hands. She hadn't registered how cold she had become over the course of a few minutes, her body no longer warmed by the uphill walking, or the adrenaline masking her discomfort. Her legs were _impossibly_ sore, the pain acting like a blanket over the rest of the senses.

'I wasn't really prepared for the wind,' Hermione said with a nervous smile, backing up a step, shuffling through the short grass, silently _willing_ the woman to let go of her fingers so that she could move even further away. 'I should have worn a warmer...'

Hermione never finished her sentence. As she retreated back a pace further, something large, solid and shockingly alive brushed up against the back of her knees. With a short cry of surprise, Hermione jumped forward again, colliding bodily with the only other person within a ten-mile radius.

Upon closer examination, her attacker was not the fire-breathing dragon that she had been expecting. The young calf had finally found the courage to come closer to the strangers, leaving the safety of his large mother to satisfy his curiosity over these new creatures that had entered the herd. Startled by the sound that Hermione had made, he stared up at the two women with his large dark eyes, his small nose quivering to distinguish whether these tall, strange-smelling animals were threat or friend, tail twitching.

His nerves were not the only things on edge. Hermione had leapt straight into Minerva when startled, nearly knocking her former teacher to the ground and throwing them both dangerously near to the steep lip of the meadow. Minerva had only steadied herself with some difficulty - she was a slight woman - but now had her hands resting over Hermione's hips, stopping any sudden movements that might scare away the young animal or set them tumbling down the hill and into the valley one thousand feet below them.

'You're rather jumpy today, Miss Granger,' the woman said softly.

Straightening up to her full height, Minerva slowly reached around Hermione's shoulders with her long arms to cover them both with the warm wool _arisaid_, doing her best not to spook the calf a few feet away. From this more intimate position she could feel that the younger woman's body shivering against her own.

The calf snorted, lowering its small head and stepping back a pace, suddenly unsure, shying at the thick fabric that rippled like a flag in the brisk wind. Twenty paces away, his mother raised her head from the grass to stare at the trio.

'Relax, Hermione.' This low command came the near the brunette's reddened, cold-nipped ear. 'He can't hurt you.'

Hermione was fully aware of the absurdity of two grown women facing off against a two-week-old cow on a mountain-top. The shock from the calf's appearance had worn off quickly but the warm embrace that locked her arms next to her sides showed no sign of going away any time soon. Had her skin not been so chilled, the brunette would have felt the rough wool of the cloak and the softer warmth of the other witch's hands against her arms. Every last part of her wanted to release the tension that held her body inert and sink into the warmth of the woman behind her, into the arms that fit so perfectly around her. She _craved _the contact.

'_Easy.'_

This was a gentle whisper next to Hermione's cheek, accompanied by a slow stroke down her side from rib to hip that made her skin tingle and caused every nerve in the young witch's body to jump giddily in anticipation.

_You're asking too much_, Hermione thought to herself, her eyes half-lidded. _Do not tell me to 'take it easy', not when your lips are so close to my neck and your arms are around me and I can feel your chest pressing against my shoulder blades and rising with every breath. You're too close to me, too warm, too _real _and too..._

Hermione's eyes flickered open in surprise, the silent stream of her thoughts breaking off unexpectedly. Unbeknownst to her, the calf at their feet had overcome his fear, stepped a pace closer and given Hermione's hand an experimental lick with a damp tongue.

Forgetting for a moment the reason for her panic, the brunette's fingers uncurled slowly and she tentatively reached to touch the top of the creature's pink nose.

The calf blew out a puff of air and backed up three steps, suddenly doubtful again.

It was a natural dance of boundaries. Boldness and fear. Advance and retreat.

'He doesn't know what to make of us,' murmured Minerva. Her long fingers had returned to rest back along the natural curve of Hermione's waist, a pleasant warmth radiating from the point of contact and spreading to warm the young witch's entire body, driving the chill away without any magic.

Hermione wasn't sure that she had any more of an idea than the calf did.

* * *

The light was fading as dusk set upon the world visible through the windows of the largest of the three guest bedrooms. Minerva drew the soft blanket over the witch's sleeping form, chastising herself for doing too much too soon, pursing her lips as she noticed the raw patch on the Hermione's palm. While walking down the mountain, the young woman had tripped and thrown out a hand to catch herself, only to have it land in a particularly prickly bunch of thistles.

Her mind reflected on the conversation with Kingsley Shacklebolt at the educational reception several weeks earlier. During a discussion about proposed Ministry policies for the school, their conversation had turned to Hermione, who had been standing nearby. The Minister had expressed admiration for the dedication Hermione showed to her work– the woman spent eleven hours a day in her office and Merlin knows how many more working back home. Minerva told him of her plans of inviting the young witch to Scotland to relax while school holidays were in session. Kingsley had been encouraging – Hermione was the most effective Senior Secretary in recent memory and he dared not risk her defecting to join a Buddhist monastery – a stay with a friend might do her a world of good and stave off stress-related mental breakdowns.

A week later Hermione had been 'strongly encouraged' to take time off - the Ministry had stopped short of physically pushing her out of the building, citing work laws (suspiciously drafted the previous weekend) that prevented her from working more than six months in a row without mandatory vacation. The young witch had been bemused by all the fuss, but reluctantly handed off her work to her temporary replacements - _three_ of them had been hired to take over for her for the month – and taken up Minerva's invitation to stay in the Highlands for part of the summer. _Reluctantly._

Sitting down on the edge of the bed, strategically avoiding jostling the mattress, Minerva leaned towards the brunette and brushed aside several loose curls that had fallen in front of Hermione's face. Hermione would never be called beautiful by most, but her extraordinary mind would have wowed the wizarding world had she been the homeliest creature in creation. Privately, Minerva suspected that the young woman's astonishing mental capacity outstripped even her own, and revelled in this knowledge. At the rate she was going, Hermione would attain the Headship of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement in a few years, placing her in a prime candidacy for Minister of Magic by the time Kingsley decided to retire decades from now.

Minerva found it quite satisfying to picture the horror of the Ministry officials once they realized exactly _who_ they had put in charge. Hermione had become more discreet with her push for racial equality, but as Minister, there would be no need for secrecy.

There was a soft groan, the sound of covers being tugged and Hermione rolled over to face her, still fast asleep.

On an impulse the Scottish witch stroked her guest under the chin with a long finger and was delighted to hear the soft rumble of what was unmistakably a purr. An encounter with feline-spiked Polyjuice potion during the woman's second year at Hogwarts had thankfully left no permanent physical changes on Hermione, although it had taken nearly two weeks for Poppy Pomfrey to figure out how to get rid of the whiskers that adorned the face of the very distraught and self-conscious young girl. Some residual traces had obviously managed to elude even Poppy's militant observational skills, and Hermione would unconsciously exhibit cat-like traits every once in a while, generally when she was near exhaustion. Minerva had discovered this oddity by accident one evening after her former pupil - exhausted by her work at the Ministry - had fallen asleep next to her at one of Molly Weasley's get-togethers several years previous. For her part, Minerva found it endearing; particularly the purring.

Even _she _didn't purr.

After a few minutes of quietly studying the young woman's face, she let her hand drift along her guest's smooth cheek once more before slowly sliding off the mattress and moving towards the door.

* * *

_My Grandpa kept two cows. One of them bit me when I was six and I haven't trusted the species since._

_Yes, there's one more chapter on the way._

_No, it won't take a year to finish, it's 90% finished, but I'm still struggling over the end. _

_(Please don't hurt me.)_


	6. Chapter 6

_Author's Note: Last chapter. Promise. I may tweak it a bit over the next few days to correct errors, but this is essentially the finished copy._

* * *

The rain returned to the valley with a vengeance that evening and did not let up until two more nights had passed. When the sun finally reappeared sheepishly from behind the clouds on the fourth day of her stay; Hermione's body had recovered from the climb up the mountain and her hands had recovered from the unfortunate encounter with the gorse plant on the way back down.

The Senior Assistant to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement was also worrying herself sick over her temporary replacements at the Ministry.

It had started off small: idle thoughts about things she should have emphasized when training the trio over two days to handle the day to day minutia of the job – but quickly ballooned into very real concerns. What if they were incompetent? What if Hermione returned to work only to discover that paperwork had been filled out incorrectly? This realization had led to visions of her office flooded with allegations of poor management and failed responsibilities, followed by nightmares about stacks of Howlers piled up on her desk, sent by disgruntled wizards and witches who had experienced delayed legal proceedings and received unfair sentencing because of her absence.

What if the Wizagamot repealed the bill to revamp the Azkaban guard system? Had she even _told_ her replacements about the proposal?

This had sent Hermione running to the owlery as fast as her newly-healed legs would take her.

* * *

To her dismay, Minerva had not shared her concerns over the imminent collapse of the Department of the Magical Law Enforcement ('I'm certain they can manage without you for three weeks'), and forbade her outright from contacting the Ministry; going so far as removing the letter Hermione had been about to send off from the owl's leg (the bird had not been pleased about being dragged out of the comfortable aviary for nothing) and pushing – _literally pushing -_ the younger woman in the direction of the library.

Any indignant thoughts that Hermione had had about this incident had dissipated shortly after seeing the shelf-lined room. Indeed, she had now spent two full days inside its walls and had barely noticed the passage of time, save for when a tray of scones and raspberry preserves and a pot of tea appeared on the top of her desk at odd intervals of the day. Minerva joined her every so often to read quietly, and the young woman couldn't help but feel that she was being watched in case she tried to fire-call the Ministry on the sly. The witch needn't have bothered; it was quite easy to lose herself in this world of books, and Hermione's fears were quickly forgotten.

The tall ceilinged, circular room spanned the first and second floor; ladders led to the upper shelves and housed a variety of works of literature that were rare, unavailable or unobtainable through the Ministry's governmental collection. To Hermione's joy, she discovered the complete anthologies of a muggle-born charms specialist who spent his life researching the ancient spells of the Northern European wizards and translated them side by side with runic translations into Romanian. The wizard scholar, Baranay Szent, had become a particular pet project of Hermione's during her early years at the Ministry while working in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures because he had worked alongside House Elves in his translations, and cited them as collaborators in his studies.

The reason that the Ministry did not carry this particular set of books was an absurd one - related to an apparent insult by the Romanian Minister of Magic towards the British magical community during the nineteenth century – and had resulted in a full ban on magical trade with Romania that had lasted for more than 40 years. It turned out (after a Ministry official reviewing political documents had discovered to his horror) that the embargo was actually a product of a mistranslation on the Ministry's part (pertaining to a letter from the Romanian Department of Magical Agriculture thanking the British Ministry for their generous gift of Dirigible Plum seeds), and after many blustered apologies to the Romanian Ministry of Magic, trade had been reopened in the early 1960s (much to the delight of wizards and witches in Britain who had been forced to find the tasty Romanian sweet 'Basilisk Brand Baklava' on the black market for decades – at prices that regularly topped ten galleons a box).

Unfortunately for those who valued Romania's academic publications more then the national brand of flaked pastry soaked in honey (now imported exclusively by Weasley's Wizard Wheezes – 13 sickles a box, 20 galleons a case – price includes delivery to anywhere in Britain), there had been no attempt to acquire any of literary works that had been published in the interim, and Hermione's recent petition to spend more on correcting this sizable hole in the Ministry collection had been ignored – the Ministry choosing to instead spend more money on a redesign of the Chudley Cannon's colours in the belief that orange was too distracting to the team members and responsible for their steady history of losses. The league needed all teams to be on the same ground after all, and the fact that three of the members of the administration in charge of allocation of funds were vocal Cannons supporters had been conveniently ignored by the committee.

Two years later, the collection of Eastern European magical literature in the Ministry Library still remained incomplete and the Chudley Cannons had yet to win a single game in their new purple and white silks. Hermione did her best not to feel too bitter.

The early afternoon sun suddenly passed out from behind the clouds and shone through the windows lining one side of the library; illuminating the large wooden desk in the center and making the handful of candlesticks scattered around it unnecessary. Seven books of varying sizes and bindings were spread across the desk's surface; three on runic symbols of the North, one on Romanian translation and grammar, the fifth a comparative analysis of changing meanings of runes over two millennia and the last; Szent's paper concerning three Norwegian wizards in the Middle Ages and a geographical text of the historical Scandinavian settlements. Even her well-disciplined mind was struggling to keep everything sorted.

It was also taking all of Hermione's considerable willpower to keep her eyes on her books; what with the tempting visual distraction within ten paces of her. Her host was stretched out along the length of the settee; the small book she had been reading for the previous hour lay on the carpet below, one pale arm hanging above it, long fingers brushing the cover. Minerva's eyes were closed and her face near expressionless save for a slight smile of pleasure as she soaked up the warmth of the unexpected afternoon sunlight shining through the tall windows.

The young woman tore her eyes away from the scene that had sent a sharp thrill through her heart and ducked her head to frown at the passage she was busy translating into English. She was more interested in the primary documents than Baranay Szent's interpretations, wanting to compare his translations with her own. It would have been tricky to decipher the ancient runes under the best of conditions but this particular tome had suffered water damage sometime in the past and the sepia walnut husk ink had run enough to make some of the pages nearly unreadable.

'Minerva?' she called out, finally giving up all hope of accomplishing it on her own, her need to continue beyond this one word outweighing her dislike of disturbing the resting witch.

'Yes?' came the prompt reply from the divan.

'Are you familiar with the runic word beginning with the letters _kaunaz, sowulo, naubiz'_?'

There was a pause.

'_Naubiz_?'

Minerva sounded as confused as Hermione felt.

'Yes.'

'This is Elder Futhark?'

'Yes.' Hermione settled back in her chair, rubbing a hand over strained eyes. 'It doesn't make much sense – I've been pouring over the books for half an hour now and can't find anything.'

Frowning further, the Scottish witch stood up and walked over to where Hermione was sitting, leaning over the young woman's shoulder to get a better look at the text. Hermione forced herself not to reflexively shrink to one side, instead fixing her eyes on the empty porcelain tea cup on its saucer, flanked - at a safe distance - by Urud Scandson's_ Guide to the Dark Ages of the Northern Countries_, and counting to twenty in Gobbledygook.

She had reached 14 when the witch spoke.

'Ah,' Minerva said, pointing with a long index finger at the appropriate line, the other hand resting on the corner of the desk for balance as she leaned over the tome. 'My great-uncle Ewan's penchant for drinking tea while reading ruined many a good book – I believe that first rune should be _jera_...'

'...making the word _erdbanz_,' Hermione finished, her mind buzzing through all the possible combinations and arriving on the most likely one, simultaneously pushing away the heady rush of feeling of being inches away from _her_.

'Correct.'

'Thank you.' Hermione scribbled the correction down on her own parchment roll before glancing back up. 'I don't know why I didn't figure it out myself.'

Minerva turned to lean back against the desk, quietly regarding her guest's head as Hermione flipped back a few pages to double-check the translation with the Szent document.

'Although I'm delighted that you're getting good use out of the library, Hermione,' the witch began dryly, '- I did give my word to the Minister that you would spend this time relaxing.'

The younger woman's cheeks flushed a faint pink, and she faltered in her search for the desired page.

'I'm sorry, I didn't mean...'

Minerva's eyes softened and she brought a hand up to touch Hermione's shoulder, drawing the witch's gaze away from her reading and up to meet her own.

'My observation wasn't meant as a criticism, Hermione. You enjoy working on problems, solving puzzles, recovering lost information.' Minerva smiled faintly. 'I also become bored if not occupied.'

Hermione opened her mouth to reply, but was silenced by Minerva's long fingers brushing briefly over her lips.

Her mind had gone blank at that.

'But this is a little different,' the older woman continued, tilting her head slightly to the right and regarding the younger over the top of her glasses, '– and I have reason to believe that it has nothing to do with boredom, and more to do with a subject that you do not feel comfortable discussing.'

One look at Hermione's expression told the witch that her shot-in-the-dark guess had just been proven right. A confirmation, but Minerva knew better than to push.

'You will tell me when you're ready, won't you?' she asked, searching the brunette's face intently.

Hermione blushed again.

'I'll...try, Minerva.'

Satisfied with this odd concession, Minerva raised her other hand and ran it slowly through the younger woman's hair, smoothing several strands so that they lay behind her ears. Instinctively, Hermione tilted her head to one side slightly, her lips parting and her eyes closing in relaxation. Nimble fingers down once along Hermione's cheek, drifting down to the jaw line and then returning to the crown of her head, poised to begin the descent again.

And then, as suddenly as it had begun, the hand drew back.

'When you are ready, Hermione,' Minerva said quietly before straightening up and leaving Hermione to her translations.

* * *

It was the next afternoon, while Hermione was working alone on the eighteenth consecutive page of Szent's manuscript (the translation was going slower than anticipated due to the sorry, tea-damaged state of most of the pages and her eyes were becoming quite strained from sorting out the blurred blots of ink into recognizable runes) that the sound of distant music drifted in through the library doors. A glance towards the empty tartan-patterned settee told Hermione that she had been so absorbed in her work that she hadn't even noticed Minerva leave.

Curiosity overcoming her desire to avoid her host as much as possible – she had almost been caught staring earlier that morning – she set her goose quill down on the sheet of blotting paper, closed the bottle of ink with one hand, and ventured out to find the source of the melody.

Her ears led her to a small room that she had only glanced into previously, at the furthest end of the house. Several tall oil paintings adorned the walls, the figures in them turning to look with mute interest at the newcomer, but there was nothing else of note in the room save for the instrument set in the middle. Feeling very much like an intruder, Hermione hung back at the entrance, resting one hand on the open door frame, silently observing the slim figure who sat at the piano as the music had drifted into a slower passage

Over the course of a week, she had seen a side of the professor that she had only glimpsed in her school days during the late evening talks and rarely at Molly's holiday gatherings. All the traits associated with Professor Minerva McGonagall, Headmistress of Hogwarts, were still there, but expressed in different, indescribable ways. She watched as long fingers moved over the keys precisely and without flourish; elegantly efficient, just like Minerva's wand work. The dry wit and cutting intellect were ever present, but this new Minerva was open, relaxed and smiled more in a day than she could recall seeing in a school year. Hermione hadn't even known that the woman enjoyed music, let alone could play an instrument.

'Please come in, Hermione.'

The woman's hands had halted their movement across the keys, the final chord of the piece fading softly into silence, and the slim witch was looking over at the brunette.

'Do you play?' she asked.

Hermione took a few hesitant steps from where she had been standing in the doorway. 'No. I...'

Hermione _had_ in fact begun lessons with a neighbour at the age of 11: any proper middle-class child of dental-practitioners was expected to be proficient with at least one musical instrument, but an unexpected invitation to an obscure public school in Scotland – extended in person by the very woman seated at the piano before her – had cut her musical education short.

'...I was in a choir when I was in Muggle school, and had started piano lessons, but the Hogwarts letter arrived, and then...' her voice died away, smiling wryly as she finished off. '...And then things turned out a little differently.'

Minerva let out a soft laugh. 'So_ I'm_ to blame for the missed opportunity. Here.' The woman shifted down to the left side of the small bench, making room for Hermione to sit down. '..I feel obliged to correct this appalling gap in your education.'

Hermione hesitated, a reluctance that obviously did not go unnoticed by the witch as a flicker of vexation crossed her elegant features.

'Hermione, I suggest that you give your mind a rest for a few moments. The translations have waited for almost 100 years to be looked at; they can wait an hour longer.'

The mundane spell that had been holding the brunette back broke, and Hermione blinked.

'Who taught you to play?' she inquired curiously, cautiously approaching the final few steps and easing herself onto the seat beside Minerva, taking particular care not to brush against the witch's body despite the close proximity. The piano that she had practiced on as a girl had been a shiny black upright; this instrument was a parlour grand configuration made of a beautiful red-tinged wood, and it was more than a little intimidating to sit at.

'Albus took it upon himself to teach me during a rather slow summer in the 1960s.' The witch gave a small grimace before adding, 'He had a particular affection for works by Debussy, a composer whom I hold in utter loathing.'

Quite predictably Minerva was a wonderful instructor. After showing Hermione the proper fingering positions and the major and minor scales, she demonstrated several simple chords – gently correcting the young woman's fingers when they strayed off the assigned keys. Minerva did not use sheet music to teach, but rather had Hermione copy her fingering and play by repeating what she heard. Hermione caught on quickly, she hadn't forgotten _everything_ that her eleven-year-old self had learned, and had soon picked up the simple melody that the elder woman showed her, even if the black keys were a little fiddly to touch compared to their wider white neighbours.

'Now, play your part,' Minerva said after the brunette had finished the piece without error, 'And I shall add the harmony .'

Dutifully, Hermione returned to the beginning, quite confused when the woman next to her didn't begin playing at the same time. It was only several bars later that she joined in, surprising the young witch so much that her own fingers faltered over a few notes and Hermione nearly lost the rhythm.

She was stunned not by the artistry of the elder woman's playing – which was considerable even to her inexperienced ears - but rather the sound of the duet that she _herself_ was part of. The layer of complexity that the lower accompaniment brought was unexpected: a seemingly simple addition that would echo Hermione's melody at certain points, but also turned to a deeper counterpoint in some sections and provided an overall richness that she had scarce thought possible. Hermione found herself slipping into a rhythm that wasn't as mechanical as she had been playing, but rather one that was more natural, responding to the lower part as it ebbed and flowed in a cascade of notes to the finish.

'That was...wonderful,' the brunette finally managed to say after the last refrain had echoed into silence. 'I didn't think...'

Minerva smiled, fine lines appearing at the corners of her eyes.

'The addition of the lower part emphasizes the higher. One single strand of song may be significant, but the harmony is the _depth _to the melody – it is the ground on which everything rests; anchoring the piece so that the first strain does not float away.'

* * *

Hermione never returned to her books, too preoccupied with playing piano, and it was over an hour later when she finally left the small music room and returned to the library. Minerva was folding up a letter at the other desk when she walked in, giving the envelope to a small brown owl which disappeared out an open window.

'A message to the Minister with the news that I've finally done something that doesn't involve research and books, Professor?' she asked innocently.

'Such accusations, Hermione.' the elder retorted, standing up and moving to the other side of the room. 'Whatever must you think of me?'

The brunette sat down on the couch nearest to the empty fireplace. 'Are my suspicions truly unfounded?'

'If you must know, it was a letter to the Board of Governors'. Minerva had opened the doors of a wooden cabinet against the wall and pulled out a wine bottle, before moving towards her guest. 'They have been pestering me to stay on for a few more years; finding my replacement is proving to be a more difficult task than expected.'

'And you told them that you felt Celestina Warbeck was the best one for the job?'

'Behave, Miss Granger; I'll not have some half-witted soprano ruining my school, even if her bust measurements match her high F.' Minerva waved her hand and drew a glass out of thin air. 'Wine?'

'I always pinned you as a wine drinker,' she said, accepting the offered glass of Chardonnay with an upward tilt of her lips. 'Even when Ron swore you lived on whisky.'

Minerva set the slim bottle on the side table and moved past Hermione to sit on the other armchair. 'I had a terrible experience with Highland moonshine when I was still in Hogwarts,' the older witch said dryly as she settled down into the cushions. 'I will not go into too much detail, but suffice it to say, the next morning I found myself on the top of the North Tower, clad in only the bare essentials and without a clue as to what I had been up to in the interim; only that it had involved a broom, two Nifflers, and Pomona Sprout. I have avoided the drink ever since, much to the relief of the stores of whisky that were left to me by my parents.'

The younger witch laughed softly. 'I've been meaning to ask - how long has this house belonged to your family?

'Two centuries.' Minerva shot an oddly disdainful glance up at the ceiling. 'And it will likely stand for just as many more.'

Hermione was surprised by the older woman's response.

'You don't like it? But it's...'

'...Ostentatious, impractical and – although it's been quite some time since I experienced it – downright freezing during the winter months. It's far too large for one person – more suitable for twenty – and if I wasn't ridiculously sentimental, I'd have replaced it with a more appropriately-sized dwelling years ago.' Minerva paused for a moment, before smiling wryly at her guest. 'The house is, however, in a wonderful location, far from the troubles of the outside world and the people in it, and I treasure that quality about it above all else. Privacy is possibly the most precious commodity one can have in this day and age – particularly for one who spends much of the year surrounded by adolescents.'

The young witch let out a small chuckle as she brought her wine glass to her lips.

'And yet you invite guests here all the same.'

'There's a considerable selection process.' Minerva countered.

Hermione laughed. 'One wonders how I managed to slip through.'

The taller woman smiled, but said nothing until her guest switched to another topic: this time questions about the dragon breeding grounds twenty miles to the north. The fact that their conversation was lurching back and forth between odd silences and stilted inquiries was not lost on the witch.

She had spent half of the last century around teenagers after all.

'A knut for your thoughts, Miss Granger?' she finally asked after another unnatural pause punctuated their conversation about Muggle Repelling charms in the Highlands not five minutes later.

'It'll cost you more than that, Professor.' Hermione had finished her wine, but refused Minerva's offer to refill her glass.

The woman's dark eyes danced. Almost at once, a small wooden box flew over from a side table next to the far wall and landed in Hermione's lap. She raised her eyebrows and with no small amount of apprehension, lifted the lid to peer inside.

'Well?' pressed the older witch.

Hermione looked up at Minerva, struggling not to smile.

'You believe my thoughts to be worth one of your precious _Ginger Newts_.'

'Humour me, my dear.'

Sighing, Hermione picked up one of the squirming cookies before setting the box on the table between them and sitting back in her chair to stare at the other occupant of the room.

'I was thinking about Minerva McGonagall in her younger years, actually,' she said truthfully.

'Ah, so long ago. I was righteous to a fault, occasionally overconfident, and had better skin.'

'I disagree,' Hermione said lightly, setting her empty wineglass on the low table, watching as the other woman tilted her glass to her lips. 'You're into your seventh decade and hardly have any wrinkles.'

Minerva choked on her wine.

'You obviously haven't been looking closely enough, Hermione,' she said after recovering some of her poise, dabbing her lips with a napkin that she conjured out of the air. 'They multiply ever year. I've habitually avoided mirrors since I turned sixty.'

'I don't see any signs of aging.'

'And these by my eyes?'

'Laugh lines.'

'You're mistaken again, my dear - I never laugh. Ask any student at Hogwarts.'

This time there was no mistaking it; the young woman's face fell visibly at the mention of the school.

'Hermione?'

And for the first time in recent memory, Hermione spoke without thinking.

'Why now?'

The dark-haired witch blinked, not following the sudden change of subject. Fully aware that she was gazing over the edge of a fissure in her self control that was much, much deeper than she had anticipated, Hermione struggled to correct herself, stumbling clumsily over words as she sought to voice a question that had been bothering her ever since that fateful day when she had picked up the Daily Prophet and dropped her toast on the floor.

'I mean...' the brunette tried again, shutting her eyes tight as she fought to compose her scattered thoughts, blocking out the sight of the woman that scrambled them without any knowledge that she was doing so. 'Why leave Hogwarts now?'

There was the briefest of pauses before the answer came.

'I am old, Hermione.' Minerva said simply. 'After three wizarding wars and fifty years of teaching, I would like to take advantage of the time that I have left without spending my evenings with endless correspondence with the Board of Governors or being taken from my bed at the wee hours of the morning by the antics yet another wayward student who has attempted to become an animagus in their free time.'

There had been two such incidents the previous school year. The girl, terrified and hysterical, hadn't done anything more dangerous than change her arms into half-formed bat wings but the second student, a seventh-year, while unsuccessful at a full transformation, had shifted his blood to that of an unknown reptile. Such an alteration was not particularly conducive for the health of a being who was otherwise physiologically a warm-blooded mammal and there had been a tense couple of hours while Poppy and Minerva waged war against the mess of botched internal transfiguration and the accompanying injuries so that he could be moved to St. Mungos without certain death. The cellular damage to his body had been catastrophic, and he had been in the hospital for three months recovering.

'No,' Hermione said, shaking her head once, staring at the elder woman. 'Not compared to some of the other professors – Filius, Hooch, Vector, Madame Pince - even _Filch_ is still there. They're all older than you.'

If Minerva McGonagall was surprised by Hermione's knowledge of the ages of the Hogwart's staff, she did not show it.

'Is it the Ministry?' Hermione pressed. 'The new teachers? The students?'

It was an impossible task to explain why she needed to know. How to express that Hermione _needed_ the woman to be contained within Hogwarts because it helped the young witch contain her feelings, control them. Compartmentalizing her feelings had been her one sure-fire way of dealing with them. Inside the castle, Minerva McGonagall was a teacher, and her confusing attachment after all these years could be shrugged off as an adolescent infatuation of a beloved and admired one-time mentor.

But if the woman was no longer there?

When, in less than a year's time, Minerva stepped down from the post and spent her remaining years outside of the castle?

Even the very thought of it terrified Hermione.

Minerva did not speak for a minute.

'It is not the Ministry, Hermione,' she finally said, an unreadable expression on her face as she regarded the young woman. 'Kingsley has given me a free rein over the castle, and the Board of Governors rarely finds fault in my leadership. Nor does it have anything to do with the new teachers; all of whom are excellent additions to the staff. And as for boredom as a teacher -,' here, the older witch's lips curved into a wry smile, '- working with children is never dull.'

'Then what...' Hermione began, only to be abruptly silenced by a raised hand.

'You don't understand, Hermione,' Minerva said, shaking her head once, 'It is for precisely those reasons that I am _able_ to leave. My successor will have been handed a Hogwarts that is well-structured, well-staffed and has an excellent foreseeable future ahead of it. I have managed to take a half-ruined school from a war-torn country with only a handful of returning staff members and bring it – with help - into this golden state, and _that_, Hermione, _that_, is enough for me.'

Leaning forward, the elder woman reached out and cupped Hermione's cheek with her right hand, gazing into the young witch's brown eyes. '...but obviously, not for you,' she finished quietly.

Hermione averted her eyes, ducking her chin down, only to have it raised up again by a slender finger.

'Look at me, dearest.' Minerva said softly, searching Hermione's eyes with her own dark ones 'You've avoided my gaze for an entire week now, you flinch whenever I so much as brush against you...'

Here, the witch gently laid her other hand on the inside of Hermione's wrist.

'...and your pulse is racing a mile a minute.'

The brunette's eyes fluttered closed as long fingers feathered their way along her inner forearm. For a week now, she had been standing on a metaphorical precipice high up on an alpine meadow, conscious of the dangers of wind and height but edging closer still. Hermione had been making her way up this mental mountain since – how old had she been when the first stirrings appeared? Sixteen? _Fifteen_? - and she had finally stumbled on the smallest of pebbles and been pitched head-first over the cliff edge, arms flailing uselessly.

She was hurtling down towards the ground so far below, faster and faster and there was no magic wand or broom to use to slow her descent.

'So, Miss Granger,' came the gentle voice again. 'I ask you again. What can I possibly have I done to make you so uncomfortable?'

_This was all wrong; it wasn't supposed to happen like this. I was hiding it so well – I could have hidden it forever if I had to._

'Why this withdrawal?' Minerva pressed; picking up the younger woman's other hand in her own. 'We have been so close in the past.'

Hermione's eyes were welling up with bright tears and her face had become a study in mortification.

'Hermione?'

With a soft cry of despair, the brunette tore away from the touch, jumping up from her seat and striding away.

'Hermione…_whatever_ is the matter?'

Minerva had stood up immediately, clearly not having expected this reaction to her questioning. She received no response; Hermione was standing five paces away, both hands curled into the top of an armchair, her entire body shaking with stifled sobs. Astonished, Minerva began to walk towards the distraught younger woman, only to be stopped by a hand that had been thrown up to hold her away.

'_Don't,_' Hermione's voice was raw. '_Please_ don't touch me.'

Hermione began to truly cry then, tears finally escaping her grasp in the presence of the one person for whom she had kept them secret from at all costs. Sheer frustration at her failure of focusing on this woman as a friend and not as a romantic interest. Shame at her own dishonesty. Desperation and despair at the inevitable withdrawal of the friendship that she had treasured above all else.

Loneliness.

Without hesitation, Minerva took the final two steps to close the distance between them and wrapped her arms around Hermione, holding the brunette tight against her body and not letting her go. After several attempts to pull away, her former student gave up fighting.

'Hush, dearest.'

'It's you,' the young woman whispered, her head resting on Minerva's chest. 'It's you...it's always been you. It never stopped. I tried..._so hard_.'

The elder woman kissed her forehead once in reply, soft lips brushing over her temple.

'Calm yourself,' Minerva whispered, echoing her words of nearly eight years ago when she had first learned of her student's secret attraction, and graciously accepted it but not reciprocated. 'I'm not upset.'

'I'm so sorry. I didn't mean...'

A second kiss, this time at the edge of her hairline.

'I love you.' Hermione breathed out, the raw truth slipping from her lips at last. 'I have loved you for so _long_.' Another rattling breath. 'I know you will never reciprocate and I'm sorry that I've ruined our...'

She was silenced as a slim hand caressed her jaw, slowly drawing her red-rimmed eyes up to meet Minerva's, and then...

_Oh._

Victor, Cormac, Ron, all had been forceful, all assuming control. The latter had been particularly inexperienced. It had been a surrender to the more dominant party; a submission to pressure. A sacrifice.

This was different.

These lips were gentle and soft. They moved slowly, parted ever so slightly, and were tilted at just the right angle to fit perfectly against her own.

Hermione's heart was pounding in her ears, her face was wet from crying and her eyes were tight from the salt. It was a long moment before she was able to react to the kiss and when she did, a soft moan escaped her.

_This_ was what it was supposed to feel like – what had been missing from Ron and Victor and Cormac – the giddiness, the _thrill_, the indescribably joy of finding a person that you_ belonged_ to. Wanting to merge into the other person, never parting again.

A match.

'Ah and here I was, expecting for Albus to pop out of his grave and ask me if I had seen Severus.' Minerva murmured softly as she leant back.

'You were quite truthful, if I recall.'

Hermione's voice was still hoarse from the bout of tears but her voice was steady and her heart felt lighter than it had in recent memory. Her eyes kept dropping to the other woman's moist red lips, wondering if this was all a wonderful dream that she would be forced to wake up from at any time.

'I am rather good at manipulation through half-truths, although never to the same mastery that Albus possessed. Nevertheless, even you were fooled by a hint of wandless magic several weeks ago.'

The brunette stared at Minerva uncomprehendingly, and the taller witch smiled gently.

'Allow me to demonstrate.'

There was a small noise from the side table beside them as Hermione's wine glass tipped up on the edge of its base for a brief moment, and came back down to rest. Liquid would have spilled over the tilted rim had the glass not already been empty.

Hermione Granger's brain was quite good at putting two and two together, and a concussed troll could have worked this out in a short amount of time.

'You...' Hermione slowly turned back to stare at Minerva in utter disbelief. 'You nudged my cup of tea...that night when you came by my flat. When I burnt my mouth and you...' The young witch's cheeks coloured a faint pink and her voice trailed off. Dark eyes regarded her calmly, with not even the barest trace of expression, and the brunette narrowed her eyes, her mind having found the final piece of the jigsaw.

'You wanted to see my reaction.'

A slim hand rose to caress Hermione's cheek, the long thumb brushing across her lips for the briefest of moments.

'- I needed to know that your feelings were still there after all this time.' Minerva's dark eyes dropped down, strangely regretful. 'I do apologize for the temporary pain involved – but I really could not think of another way that I would be in the position to kiss you.'

'Getting me drunk wasn't an option?'

Hermione quip made the taller woman let out a brief laugh.

'Severus never did quite forgive me for what I did to him in retaliation for pushing me on that subject, my dear. I felt it best for you to stay sober.'

'You make a much nicer cat than he did, Minerva.'

Minerva chuckled. 'That isn't quite the achievement that you make it out to be – your Crookshanks was a veritable beauty compared to Severus's feline form.'

The Headmistress paused, regarding the younger witch with a slight smile on her lips.

'I should add that I do feel that we have made some progress from all those years ago – ' she added, '-You haven't attempted to reorganize the library, are still wearing all of your clothes, and Mr. Weasley and Mr. Potter haven't interrupted us.'

'Well, Professor, perhaps we haven't spent enough time at it.' Hermione murmured with a sly smile, moving up on her toes to meet the other witch's lips with her own.

* * *

'You have several feline mannerisms when you are asleep.'

Hermione frowned at the other woman on the couch, a small crease appearing between her eyebrows. It had been an hour since one of the more stressful events in her life had passed and Hermione was more relaxed and happy than she could recall feeling in years. Her biggest secret and biggest fear had been resolved. It had been an eventful day, to say the least.

'You purr.' Minerva clarified.

'_I do what?_'

'I still have nightmares about that tail,' Hermione intoned after Minerva had finished explaining her discovery. 'It hurt dreadfully when I sat on it.'

'You have to lean forward.'

Hermione's eyebrows shot up.

'Being an animagus takes time. I spent more than a few evenings while I was perfecting my form with rather persistent whiskers or occasionally- and more unpleasantly - the tail. It was an incentive to be diligent with my efforts to complete the change, and...' Minerva grimaced at the memory, '...to perfect my Glamour Charms.'

The young woman pushed herself up with her elbows.

'That was something I never understood; how did the Marauders become animagi so quickly during school? I know it took you the better part of a year, and that was after your left Hogwarts.'

'When Potter, Black and Pettigrew became animagi, they skipped a few steps.'

'Skipped?'

'Yes. Part of the finesse of the change was lost to them; their animal shapes were influenced heavily by the animal mind and instincts and they only had a rudimentary control while changed. It is characteristic of many rushed attempts, and can be quite dangerous if certain features are ignored.'

Minerva sat up.

'Whereas I...'

The words were still hanging in the air when the dark-haired witch shifted to the familiar form of a silver tabby. The cat crawled daintily into Hermione's lap before there was a snap of air being pushed outwards and Minerva changed back to her normal self, arranged so that she was leaning over the younger witch's frame with a knee on either side of Hermione's waist, slim calf muscle hugging Hermione's thighs.

'...find the change as easy as breathing,' she finished softly.

The unconscious act of respiration was not coming so easily to Hermione. Saddled by her former professor, Minerva's long hair tickling her neck, all the young woman could really think about was something rather inappropriate.

From the Headmistress' facial expression, one didn't need Legilimency to figure out what was foremost in Hermione's mind.

'Miss Granger.' Minerva purred, her dark eyes full of ill-concealed amusement. 'You seem rather..._unsettled_.'

Hermione croaked out something unintelligible and the older woman grinned wickedly, making her former student's heart almost leap out of her body.

Minerva McGonagall was _breathtaking_ when she smiled.

'I'm not really inclined to move, Hermione,' she murmured, moving closer so that their faces were mere inches away.

The brunette stroked the crown of Minerva's dark head, her hand slipping down to trace the contour of the woman's brow.

'You are beautiful,' Hermione whispered, gazing up at the lithe-limbed witch with wonderment.

A wave of warmth passed from the region of Minerva's chest and spread across her entire being, showing as a faint blush across her pale cheeks.

'You are kind, Hermione - I am too old to be beautiful.'

'And yet,' the young witch breathed, raising her head to kiss the side of Minerva's mouth, her hands drifting down to the woman's slim waist, '- _my_ elegant creature - you somehow manage it.'

_The End_

* * *

_And yes, it's time for another edition of the 'end of story' author's notes._

_Depressing stuff first: I have a confession to make. I've been part of the MM/HG world for more than half a decade now, but admit to reaching a bit of a wall. A huge, almost insurmountable one. Picture the Great Wall: it's that big. The problem is that I've been out of school since mid '07 and the number of teacher crushes – gigantic, soul-aching crushes that drove me to write this pairing in the first place – have been thin on the ground, so to speak. Zilch. Inspiration took a sharp nose dive without a muse, much to the dismay of the rabid readers out there. _

_Life has sucked for the past year and a half for a variety of reasons, but things are looking up. So, there may very well be more Minerva and Hermione on the way in new one-shots (the one that seems to be the easiest to write is a 'Hermione's returned to do her seventh year'). It may be a while before I have another multi-chapter fic – I'm shamed to say that I'm running out of ideas that don't already exist in several variations by other authors. My, we are a prolific bunch – over five hundred, and that's not including any of the multi-chapter counts. Whoever knew that MM/HG would become mainstream?_

_Let me just add that I'm grateful to all those who left notes for me to 'hurry up and finish this story before we all die of old age and the sun collapses and we no longer have internet'. At each reminder, another part of this story was written._

_Really, I don't know how __**asouldreams**__ does it week after week. I'm still quite convinced, despite her protestations to the contrary, that she's not entirely human. _

_BTW: I'm not on Pottermore yet (October can't come soon enough!)but I did spoil myself and read Minerva's story at the earliest opportunity. I'll pull parts of the new canon into future fics – and gleefully ignore other parts as I'm quite attached to certain fan-made tropes. _

_And I think that I've managed to upload this in time to say Happy Birthday Professor McGonagall!_


End file.
